Amber leaves fall like confessions unspoken
drifting into the hush of a weary dusk
each one a syllable of a love once fierce
now fractured into brittle echoes.
The air tastes of cinnamon and sorrow
a mingling of sweetness and ache
as though the season itself remembers
how warmth can falter into ruin.
Beneath the maples I walk alone
their branches stretched like aching arms
once clothed in fire, now surrendering
to the inevitability of absence.
I think of your laughter—
a golden flame that once lit my hollow chest
but flames tire, even the brightest burn out
and silence grows where music once lived.
Yet autumn consoles me with paradox
that beauty is born in the art of letting go
for every leaf that surrenders to the wind
teaches me how to release your memory.
Still, the ache lingers—
like smoke after a candle’s collapse
like footprints pressed deep in the soil
where no new roots dare to rise.
Love was a season we mistook for eternity
and heartbreak the frost we never foresaw
but here in the amber hush of dying light
I learn that endings, too, can be beautiful.
November, 2025
