Written.

Some encounters,
sudden and brief,
short yet their tracks remain,
their imprints echo through your life,
like a white noise at the back of your mind,
making appearances at the randomest times.

they aren't scars,
they are sculptures,
they aren't nothing,
they aren't bad,
and I'm glad.

their sounds awaken the conciousness that you never thought you needed.
traumatic, romantic or nonchalant,
either way,
they've served you well.