The ones we pass

They move through the city like a quiet breeze without noice or asking for attention. His hand rises for a fist bump, cracked and swollen with pain that must scream beneath the surface, but still he offers it freely not because there’s anything to gain, not because the world is deserves it, but simply because he still chooses to give. Another stands in front of a counter, asking for half a fish not because he wants less, but because he already knows he cant give enough. The request is turned down, not in cruelty, but in that tired, hollow way the world says “no” to those who are forgotten. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t flinch, just turns and walks away with the kind of grace that should have been rewarded. Later, when the air is still and his hands hold warmth again, he speaks softly of Saturdays long ago, of his parents, eating fish together with laughter by the sea. His voice carries the weight of someone who has lost more than just shelter someone who remembers vividly what love once tasted like, even when nothing else remains. He remembers everything. But no one else will. There are no records of their lives, no photographs in wallets, no names etched in stone. One day, a city truck will come by. The bench they slept on will be wiped down. Their things will be gathered up in silence and thrown away as if it were litter. No one will say a word. No one will ask where they went. It will be as if they never existed at all.

I could not sleep, and suddenly thought of a homeles person I once met. I realised a lot of people like him would be forgotten, so I wrote this poem so he wont dissappear from existance without leaving something behind. Im still figuring poetry out, so if you have notes or tips or ways to improve just let me know