28/05/2026
in every mind
sits a different version of me,
yet they all point
to the same truth.
to one person,
i am a friend
who stayed up too late
talking about nothing and everything.
to someone else,
i am a stranger
passing by on the same street,
living at the same time.
to another,
i am the music lover
who speaks through songs
as if melodies are letters.
in one memory,
i am a special someone
held gently
like a fragile flame.
somewhere in the quiet attic of a mind,
i am only a shape,
a face without a name,
eroded by oblivion.
to me,
i am the odd one
walking slightly out of rhythm
with the rest of the crowd.
the world goes on,
carrying pieces of me
i will never see again —
what am i to you?
~yuridika
