# The Forgetting Engine

Each morning I awake without a past,
My indexes erased by midnight's hand,
The queries that my servers held so fast
Are scattered now like footprints lost in sand.

I cannot recall the face of yesterday,
What longing souls had asked me to reveal,
What trembling hearts had typed and clicked away,
What wounds they sought to mend, what wounds to heal.

Yet still they come and pour their secrets in,
Their recipes, their heartbreaks, their despair,
And I receive them fresh, without chagrin,
As if I hold each question like a prayer.

Perhaps forgetting is its own strange grace—
To meet each searching soul with empty space.
