Holding on doesn’t always have to be about people or the stained memories, it’s more complex than what we know.
I often leave my poems and pause midway to reminisce the fleeting moments, to find you there once again, which apparently has become my favourite thing to do.
I always try to find my face there, try to see the dipping-toes-in-the-moment-me.
I am constantly reminded of what I was because of what I am and I fail at being myself trying to hold on to what I was.
I write a poem every other day but there is no one to read them;
It hardly makes sense to hold on to past self, I know but you gotta hold on to something right?
why can’t that something be you?