We wrote our names in the sand,
knowing the tide would come,
but still, we hoped—
maybe the waves would forget
and leave us, just for a moment, to exhale.
We carved words in bathroom stalls,
painted over, but still rigid,
marking time in ordinary places—
quiet rebellions of the unnoticed,
pyramids half-buried in dust—
a great attempt at resisting time’s erosion.
We built small monuments
with hands that trembled,
dreaming of immortality in fleeting acts.
A footstep here, a glance there—
only we remember the stories that didn’t stick.
The world forgets all but the loudest voices,
Yet our whispers fill the cracks,
sink into the walls,
half-erasures still legible in the right light—
proof that in in every quiet act,
in every unnoticed gesture, we were here.
