Time carves out the stone—
Leaves return to soil as breath,
Then rise up again.

I love you like the moss loves stone—
softly, and from below.
I do not ask to be noticed.
Only to grow where you’ve been.

You walk like weather,
and I brace for it—
sunlight when I’ve built a life of shade.
But still, I bloom in the places
your voice might have touched.

You are the river
I never learned to swim.
Always near, always moving—
never mine.

I memorize you in seasons:
your laughter in spring,
your distance in winter,
your kindness in summer,
and in autumn—
the way you vanish beautifully.

I speak to you
in the language of leaves,
shivering when you pass by,
but never loud enough
to make you turn.

If I could be anything,
I’d be the sky you don’t notice—
just to hold you
without you ever knowing.

Because love like this
isn’t about having.
It’s about standing still
while your moon
spins silver through someone else’s night.

And I stay the tidepool,
small and quiet and brimming,
waiting for your shadow
like it’s a kind of sunlight.

No love is true or false
Love is love
Same for all
Sacred and pure.

It is just that
Some people love and
some only pretend.

Winter begins not with snow,
but with the silence before it—
that strange pause
when even the wind forgets its name,
and the sky holds its breath
like it’s waiting to see who you’ll become
when everything else is stripped away.

I step into the cold,
and it feels like stepping out of memory.
No past.
Just breath and bone,
cracking in the stillness.

Nothing lies in winter—
it simply covers.
A kind of mercy, maybe.
A kind of dare.

Under the frost,
things don’t disappear.
They hold their shape
quietly,
aching to be misunderstood.
Just like me.

This season doesn’t decorate.
It reveals.
The trees forget how to pretend.
The ground stops performing softness.
Even the light arrives with sharp edges.
I see myself more clearly
when everything else withdraws.

I have mistaken warmth for truth.
For love.
For permanence.
But there is a clarity in cold
that no fire has ever given me.

Some days I feel like a lake beneath ice—
still, but only on the surface.
Underneath: movement.
Old things.
Unspoken.
Refusing to freeze all the way through.

I carry myself through these white hours
without language,
only instinct.
Only the weight of breath in my chest,
reminding me
that survival is not the same as stillness.

And if identity lives anywhere—
it lives here.
In the bones of trees.
In the hush after snowfall.
In the refusal to bloom
just because someone else is tired of waiting.

I do not need to thaw
to be real.

Rain doesn't ask for permission.
It comes uninvited,
spilling down gutters,
filling in the spaces
you pretended were solid.

It has a way of making everything honest.
The sky opens its throat,
and suddenly,
you remember all the things
you swore you buried.

The house goes quiet.
Even your bones seem to listen.
You watch the window like it might say something
you forgot to hear.

Outside, the earth softens.
Pavement darkens like bruised skin.
And all the noise you carry
becomes background.

They say rain is cleansing,
but they never mention
how it drags everything to the surface first—
the mud, the oil,
the names you only speak
when the room is empty.

You sit there.
Let it fall.
Let it mean something.

Because maybe water knows more than we do.
About weight.
About return.
About how things always come back
softer.
But never the same.