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Forgetting Faces
I have a bad habit of forgetting faces—
Their features soften with time,
Fading at the edges without warning,
Like bus tickets left in old pockets.
But I remember the stories clearly:
The way someone leaned into a cushion,
The irregular pauses in their speech,
Laughter spilling too loud in the pantry.
I recall how certain people filled a space—
Not with their looks, but with their presence,
The way they carried confidence,
Or made you feel lighter just by sitting close.
Late-night conversations, unsolicited advice,
A shared bag of chips on sidewalks,
The comfort of walking home together
Without needing to explain yourself.
Maybe memory works like that—
Holding warmth more than appearances,
Keeping the essence of a moment
Even when the face slips away.
