Page 73, Your Name

That dusty box, it held

the past, like ancient air.

A ghost that hadn't yelled,

just sat there, quiet, rare.

And then the book, stiff spine,

a picture of my younger face.

The ink, a faded line,

in that forgotten space.

"Don't let them put out your flame,"

you scrawled, beneath my name.

And now I laugh, a bit,

at how I needed it.

A joke, a hurried thought,

a battle I had fought

and almost lost, that year.

The light is still right here.

Barely.