03/06/2026
The Season That Left
You were never just beautiful.
Flowers are beautiful.
The moon is beautiful.
A river under the evening sky is beautiful.
But you were something else.
You were the quiet softness
of the first rain after summer.
The kind of beauty
that arrives gently
and changes everything.
Your eyes were like two deep lakes,
calm on the surface,
yet carrying storms
that no one could see.
I could spend hours
looking into them
and still feel
as if I had missed something.
Your smile was like sunrise.
Slow.
Warm.
Certain.
The kind of light
that made ordinary days
feel important.
And your voice—
it reminded me
of a river in spring,
flowing without effort,
making even silence
sound beautiful.
I often wonder
if flowers know
they will fade,
or if they bloom
without fear.
Because you were like that—
a flower in full blossom,
beautiful enough
to make someone believe
in forever,
fragile enough
to disappear with a season.
The strange thing is,
I do not miss your beauty anymore.
I miss the future
hidden inside it.
I miss the mornings
that never arrived.
The conversations
that never happened.
The life
that remained a dream.
Now when I see
the moon above me,
I do not admire it.
I remember you.
When I see a river,
I remember you.
When spring returns
and flowers bloom again,
I remember you.
Nature has a habit
of coming back every year.
Flowers bloom again.
Rivers keep flowing.
The moon returns every night.
Only you
chose not to.
And perhaps
that is why
the world still looks beautiful,
but never quite
as beautiful as before.
3/6/26
