I flip the pages soft and slow,

Where time has curled the edges so.

A ticket stub, a dried bouquet,

A scribbled note from yesterday.

Pressed petals from a fleeting spring,

A smile caught in a photo’s ring.

A fingerprint in dusty ink,

Moments vanish faster than we think.

Here’s laughter in a folded napkin,

A tear in ink that once felt satin.

Each page a whisper, each glue mark true,

Of all the little things I knew.

No diamonds here, nor velvet throne—

Just traces of a life well-known.

But in these clippings, torn and worn,

A quiet kind of grace is born.

For in the scrapbook, time stands still,

Each scrap a piece, each piece a will—

To remember, to feel, to hold again,

The love that lingers, like a friend.