“Mere verses," "words of mad woman.” They mocked. “Old soul", they named me. It started when I talked about things that are dying while the human race still continues to exist. These are remnants of love. People who left long ago are memories live replayed here. You remember the people you love. I constitute as a whole being with parts of my loved ones first. Their Habits turned into mine. My sleep cycle matches theirs. Handwritten letters I never sent And ashes of notes my father left burning. Hand holding and eye reading, Warm hugs after a long time. A part of me is their home, a part of Them are buried in mine. Old songs and efforts put constantly Continued friendships of legacies. Now I ask them to put love in the materialistic things, in the hope of letting it reside there, preserving it all Every bit of my life constitutes now To a piece of writing. A poetry, a journal entry. A lesson for one, Inspiration for another? Writing is breathing, The warmth and ecstasy make me dizzy amidst the suffocation modernism has brought. A lullaby to sleep. A caress to my wounds. I've learned to pour out love, Without depleting myself of it. I no longer consider humans as mere vessels that empty out their content. Here's to breathing and Continuing to spread love.