The lilies are not coming.
Staying did not come either.
It left quietly
and stayed gone.
And I am tired of building altars
out of things that never learned how to remain.
So I stop.
Not gracefully.
Not gently.
collapsing under the memory of what never arrived.
And I put my hands in the soil anyway
because nothing else has ever remained.
The lilies are not coming
and that has to mean something now.
Not poetry.
Not metaphor.
I call this living, I think
a quiet kind of sinking
that still learns how to breathe.
Or is it... living?
May 12
May 12, 2026 at 6:44 PM UTC
The lilies are not coming.
Staying did not come either.
It left quietly
and stayed gone.
And I am tired of building altars
out of things that never learned how to remain.
So I stop.
Not gracefully.
Not gently.
collapsing under the memory of what never arrived.
And I put my hands in the soil anyway
because nothing else has ever remained.
The lilies are not coming
and that has to mean something now.
Not poetry.
Not metaphor.
I call this living, I think
a quiet kind of sinking
that still learns how to breathe.
Or is it... living?
I'm the only one pne who will ever celebrate me the way I derseve♡.