Allow me to explain.
Outside, the sky weeps with silver threads,
but it is not truly raining.
The ground is dry beneath my feet,
yet I swear, I feel myself drowning.
In reality—
It is not the storm that chills me,
but the absence of warmth once promised.
Not the wind that carves my bones,
but the silence where your laughter should be.
My zinc winter
clangs hollow where your voice once rang,
a dull, muted season rusted in regret.
The frost bites, not with fangs, but with longing,
etching your name in the breath of the glass.
Is missing
a thaw, a bloom, a sky unstained by memory.
The ache of frozen hands reaching
for what has already melted away.
Your blue spring—
a color I can no longer find,
an echo of something soft and radiant,
like the first petal that dares to rise
from the ruin of winter’s hands.
Tell me,
is it raining where you are?
