The Things You Won’t Remember

You won’t remember the quiet hours,
when the world outside lay still,
and I held you close in the softest dark—
but I always will.

You won’t remember the midnight songs,
hummed low to ease your cries,
the rocking chair’s gentle, rhythmic sway
beneath tired, tender skies.

You won’t remember your tiny sighs,
curled safe upon my chest,
as dawn stretched gold across the walls
and I breathed with you at rest.

You won’t remember the whispered tales
told slow with sleepy grace,
stories spun of dreams and stars
as moonlight kissed your face.

You won’t remember the smallest hands
wrapped tight around my thumb,
or how I traced your drowsy smile
when the evening hush had come.

You won’t remember the times you woke
with shadows in your eyes,
when I whispered away your quiet fears
and sang you back to skies.

You won’t remember the gentle steps
I took so you could sleep,
or the hours spent just watching you
and promises I’d keep.

You won’t remember—but I always will:
the soft weight of you in my arms,
the smell of your hair, the curve of your cheek,
the power of your smallest charms.

These moments will fade for you, my love,
like dawn fading from night’s chill.
But they are written deep within my heart—
You won’t remember, but I always will.