The Season After You

I remember the way we laughed in kitchens,
how the coffee always tasted warmer with you near.
Those days sit folded in my memory
like letters I no longer send, but never tear.

I’ve swept the corners of my heart
where your echoes used to stay,
not to erase you, never that,
but to make room for my own day.

We were a season the world once gave me,
full of wind in the hair and light in the eyes.
I have walked far enough now to see
that even endings can be tender goodbyes.

I’ve learned to breathe without your shadow,
to wake without waiting for your voice.
The mornings are quieter now,
but they are mine, and mine by choice.

I do not stand at windows anymore,
watching for a shape that never comes.
The glass is clear, the air is still,
and I no longer count the hours in crumbs.

I still carry the colors we painted together,
though they’ve faded into softer tones.
They remind me not of loss, but of living—
that once, my heart knew how to be at home.

I expect nothing from you anymore,
no echoes, no returns, no saving grace.
I’ve learned that love can change its form
and still keep a warm and tender face.

You owe me no path, and I’ll walk where I will,
no promises, no half-turned smile.
But if you ever call, I’ll answer still,
but my world won’t stop for a while.

This is the last I will write of you,
the final verses where your shadow lingers.
From here, my ink will bloom for me,
shaped by my own steady fingers.

No more lines will bend toward your memory,
no more pages with your name in their threads.
From here, my horizons will carry my stories,
all the chapters where I walk ahead.

And if your storms should find you lost,
they will no longer be mine to weather.
I release the need to be your shelter,
or any light you turn toward in the dark.

And should our roads meet on some distant morning,
I will pass you as one who once knew you,
with no reaching, no returning—
only a quiet peace, and my steps moving on.