Brick Memory

Walking past the library, just because.

My hand, it reached out without asking,

found the brick where I always was

waiting. The rough, familiar casing.

It's still there. The cool, the grit,

the way it held me up, years ago.

Faint scuffs where shoulders used to sit,

a hundred stories, soft and low.

Not smooth, not perfect, but it felt true.

Like some part of me was still there,

pressed into the mortar, clinging through

the dust and changing, thin city air.