Winter found me first—
it always does.
Bare trees, early dark,
the hush where absence grows.
Six years now,
layered like snow,
each silence falling
where your voice used to go.
The cold keeps score.
It knows my name.
I learned to breathe
inside the ache,
to walk the days,
yet never claim
that time has softened
what remains.
Spring arrives, rehearsing hope.
Petals open, light grows kind.
The world begins,
but I stay close
to what the heart
won’t leave behind.
Every bloom
recalls your face—
a promise time
could not replace.
Summer lingers, slow and bright,
stretching warmth into the night.
Golden hours ache to stay,
then leave me
just the same.
My hands still know
the shape of you,
six years gone,
yet feeling true.
Autumn speaks of letting go.
Leaves fall clean,
as if they know.
I gather what
the wind discards—
your voice in rain,
your ghost in dark.
Time insists
I should be free.
My heart calls this
remembering.
And when the year
completes its turn,
I return to what I’ve learned:
the world may thaw,
may bloom, may burn—
but love stays where
it first was hurt.
I move ahead,
yet still I stand
in winter’s hold,
your name in hand.
Dec 22, 2025
Dec 22, 2025 at 12:54 AM UTC
Winter found me first—
it always does.
Bare trees, early dark,
the hush where absence grows.
Six years now,
layered like snow,
each silence falling
where your voice used to go.
The cold keeps score.
It knows my name.
I learned to breathe
inside the ache,
to walk the days,
yet never claim
that time has softened
what remains.
Spring arrives, rehearsing hope.
Petals open, light grows kind.
The world begins,
but I stay close
to what the heart
won’t leave behind.
Every bloom
recalls your face—
a promise time
could not replace.
Summer lingers, slow and bright,
stretching warmth into the night.
Golden hours ache to stay,
then leave me
just the same.
My hands still know
the shape of you,
six years gone,
yet feeling true.
Autumn speaks of letting go.
Leaves fall clean,
as if they know.
I gather what
the wind discards—
your voice in rain,
your ghost in dark.
Time insists
I should be free.
My heart calls this
remembering.
And when the year
completes its turn,
I return to what I’ve learned:
the world may thaw,
may bloom, may burn—
but love stays where
it first was hurt.
I move ahead,
yet still I stand
in winter’s hold,
your name in hand.
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