Thinking of a remnant — what makes you question,

Is that the trace I watch still linger?

A whisper pressed in silent succession,

Or a shadow blurred by time’s own finger.

What of the void, that makes you avoid

The vestigium etched where presence once cloyed?

A mark too full of sweetness and ache,

Now heavy with all we chose to forsake.

Lacking the strength, the courage that fades,

In moments when light barely invades.

We reach, we stall — we barely speak,

Yet hope still pulses when we're weak.

Why does time carve absence into essence?

Why do echoes hold more weight than presence?

It erodes, it drifts — disperses, wilts,

Leaving us barefoot in memory’s silt.

So if you find what was left behind,

A trace, a mark — not cruel, but kind —

Know not all that fades is lost to the air,

Some footprints linger because we still care.