Romance has died in me today.
Its breath, once warm,
now escapes in cold sighs,
the ache no longer sweet,
the song no longer sings.

The roses I held close
wilted, thorns dull against my palms—
even their pain feels distant now.

Love’s fire, they said,
never truly fades,
but here I stand,
surrounded by its gray ash,
its promises burnt,
its whispers gone silent.

The words I once poured
like wine into waiting cups,
spill no more—
the bottle, empty.

It isn’t anger,
nor sorrow,
but a quiet hollow
where romance once bloomed.

Perhaps it will return,
a seed carried by some kinder wind,
but for now,
the garden lies bare