Seasonal Melancholy

I learned the hours

by the way the coffee cooled—

how long it took

for steam to disappear

without being touched.

Morning after morning

I poured myself into the cup first—

strong, bitter, awake—

then waited

to see if you would notice.

You moved through the room

like time does—

always forward,

never looking back

at what it leaves behind.

I learned which questions

to swallow.

Which silences

to sweeten with cream.

By evening,

I uncorked patience like wine—

let it breathe on the counter,

hoping it would soften

with air,

with waiting.

You drank the night distracted.

I sipped slowly,

memorizing the taste

of almost.

I made a season

out of loving you.

Autumn hands—

always gathering,

always preparing

for a cold

I wouldn’t name.

I set the table like a calendar:

special occasions circled in red,

ordinary days erased.

You arrived hungry

but never stayed.

I turned myself into a room

that stayed warm

even when the windows were left open.

You called it comfort.

I called it survival.

Winter came quietly.

It always does.

I wore it well—

layers of understanding,

scarves of forgiveness,

boots meant for standing still.

You mistook my stillness

for roots.

Thought I belonged

where you left me.

Spring tried to tell me—

in small green rebellions—

that nothing is meant

to ache this long.

That love should rise,

not settle.

By summer,

I was overripe with restraint.

Sweetness fermenting

into something

unfamiliar.

One night,

I noticed the clock had hands

and I had none.

All that time I gave you—

and not a single moment

reached back.

So I did a quiet thing.

I set the mug down.

Let the wine go unfinished.

Closed the window

I’d been standing in

for years.

I did not leave in thunder.

I left the way seasons change—

inevitable,

unannounced,

already decided

long before you felt the cold.

And you—

standing in the warmth

I used to be—

finally noticed

the room

was empty.