Morning Light

There’s a strange weight to the truth when it arrives too late—like hearing the echo of a song long after the music has ended. It lingers, but it no longer belongs to you. I think that’s how it feels when people slip away.

You can’t reach back. You can’t unlive the silence. People fade, and you are left holding only the outline of what they once meant to you.

There’s a cruelty in how memory works. The faces blur first, the sound of their voice grows fainter. Yet the ache stays sharp. Regret doesn't scream—it whispers, persistent and low, reminding you of the moments you let slip through your fingers.

The times you could have shown up, could have spoken, could have been something more than a spectator in your own life.

And the worst part? The world moves on. The streets stay loud, the days keep passing, and you are the only one still haunted by the ghosts of what was left undone.

what was left (winter letters 3.1)

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contact email: aureliuscircle1@gmail.com

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