Love Letters to Forgotten Things is a series of lyrical reflections, strange monologues, and tender tributes to the lost and nearly-lost moments of our shared past. It's for the things we remember quietly, in car rides and in grocery store aisles. The moments we thought no one else had held onto—but did.
We write to the scuffed plastic of Trapper Keepers. To the last golden hour of summer vacation. To the sound of a local DJ’s voice echoing through a putt-putt golf course at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday. To the feeling of being known—completely—and then, one day… not.
These aren’t love letters in the traditional sense. They’re love letters to smells, to sounds, to textures. To weird rituals, awkward moments, and the small sacredness of being a child in a world that hadn’t yet forgotten how to feel big.
They are not eulogies. They are reminders. Tiny, flickering reminders.
Because the past isn’t gone—it’s just quieter now.
We’re not here to mourn what’s lost. We’re here to marvel at what once was— and how lucky we were to have been there at all.
There’s no proof. No pictures. Just this: a love letter.
Love Letters to Forgotten Things is a series of lyrical reflections, strange monologues, and tender tributes to the lost and nearly-lost moments of our shared past. It's for the things we remember quietly, in car rides and in grocery store aisles. The moments we thought no one else had held onto—but did.
We write to the scuffed plastic of Trapper Keepers. To the last golden hour of summer vacation. To the sound of a local DJ’s voice echoing through a putt-putt golf course at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday. To the feeling of being known—completely—and then, one day… not.
These aren’t love letters in the traditional sense. They’re love letters to smells, to sounds, to textures. To weird rituals, awkward moments, and the small sacredness of being a child in a world that hadn’t yet forgotten how to feel big.
They are not eulogies. They are reminders. Tiny, flickering reminders.
Because the past isn’t gone—it’s just quieter now.
We’re not here to mourn what’s lost. We’re here to marvel at what once was— and how lucky we were to have been there at all.
There’s no proof. No pictures. Just this: a love letter.
