by Xenia Makridou

Perhaps a little too early in the morning at the time I’m publishing this post, and also a different sort of season, for this poem, but inspiration can come at any point in time, right?


— Forgetting —

My hand on the paper is soft,

the tip of my pen gliding,

this is how memory fades,

feeling by feeling, thought by thought, person by person.


Memories are not set in stone, but ever changing,

and as the snow now falls and melts,

so do memories they come but soon go,

and this is the story of time.


Don’t be afraid of loss,

don’t be afraid of time.