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Date of Posting: Wednesday, 9 April 2025
A memory does not knock—
it seeps in,
like rain through a forgotten crack
in the attic window.
You were laughing, I think,
though the sound has grown moss.
The light was warmer that day.
Or maybe that’s just my mind
rewriting shadows into sun.
I fold it up carefully now,
this paper-thin feeling—
slide it behind the spine
of a book I haven’t opened in years,
and leave it there
to breathe.
RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH
GUWAHATI, ASSAM, INDIA
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