🍃🍂🍁 Autumn 🍁🍂🍃
I wish my wounds would quietly heal, like autumn leaves falling one by one, and being rebuilt anew.
I wish my pain would soften, without breaking the heart it clings to.
I wish your name would fade inside me, so gently, so silently like a memory lost.
No whisper of you in the dark of night, no scent that screams through my thoughts uninvited.
It is like the season of autumn not cold, not warm between staying and leaving, like leaves trembling with each breeze, unsure whether to fall or hold on.
Like a memory losing its color, yet still rustling in a corner of the heart.
Like a girl with orange hair, walking through a silent street, each glance a chapter of love.
Autumn is my season, the season of silence and longing, the season of falling gazes, the season of a girl with orange hair…
Some wounds stay quiet, yet remain awake. Time Passes but they still burn, still ache.
The more I think, the deeper the sea becomes. Thoughts are waves heavy, hollow, endless.
No shore, no light, no path to flee, only silence whispering: You were mine.
I wish pain would release its claim, without my heart breaking beneath its name.
But pain speaks a tongue no one taught, and love is a wound time never forgot.
Forgetfulness a wish so small, so tender, so faint. I know it’s in vain…
Forgetfulness slips so easily from the tongue, and burns so fiercely in the heart. Like a breeze that passes gently, but leaves a trace behind— a trace without sound, without color, yet it remains.
Autumn was born from a quiet ache a season of silence, longing, and the slow unraveling of memory. It is a reflection on wounds that do not scream, yet never sleep.
In this poem, falling leaves become symbols of pain that softens but never disappears. The girl with orange hair is a figure of memory walking through a silent street, each glance echoing a chapter of love once held.
Autumn, for me, is not just a season. It is the space between forgetting and remembering, between holding on and letting go. It is the hush between heartbeats, where longing lives.
I wrote this piece to transform sorrow into beauty, and silence into voice. I hope that even if the reader does not know my language, they will feel the emotion like a breeze that leaves no sound, no color, but still remains.
With love and quiet hope,
Roya, S.H.
