Memory

We are not what we remember.
We are what remembers us.
Those images that come
Uninvited in a dream.
Those phrases that surface in the silence.
And the forgotten – is not a shadow. It is a seed,
Which sprouts when no one is looking.

Sometimes we are healed not by
What we remember –
But by what we allow to lose its form.

For memory is like old skin:
It keeps us whole.
But sometimes we must shed it,
To breathe.