You were a season,
not a person,
all golden hush and rustling grief.
You smelled like woodsmoke,
like something once warm,
now folded in silence.

You touched the world in falling leaves,
never in roots.
Transient. Beautiful.
Like you never meant to stay.

I tried to hold you,
but your heart was wind
it slipped between fingers
like ash or time or promises.

You wore sorrow like a scarf,
drifting behind you in every room you left.
And God, you were always leaving.
Leaving with the dusk,
with the dry breath of goodbye
pressed into my collar.

I hope you’re somewhere the air doesn’t ache.
I hope your bones feel sunlight.
But most of all,
I hope you forgive me
for not knowing how to love a season
as fleeting as you.

 

 

 

 

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash