IV. The First Dimming

Part of a poetry novella.

It was not rain, nor winter's hand,
That told me you would slip away
Just silence, blooming where we’d stand,
And shadows growing in the day.

You smiled, but not the way you did
When laughter reached your weary bones.
A part of you was softly hid,
And left me speaking to the stones.

Still, petals clung to every tree,
And golden light kissed every door
But something deep inside of me
Had heard the lock click evermore.

Reviews

[...Relic...]

This is really written well. The loss of love has its signs that speak even if only inferred through small silences. Great rhymes in this. I like it.