A sky so clear it seemed
the sun had stitched its light
into every corner of the world.
You stood beside me then,
warm as summer on bare skin,
and I believed forever
was something we could hold.
But love is a weathered thing.
Slowly, clouds gathered
at the edges of our horizon,
small at first,
easy to ignore,
easy to call passing.
Then came the gray.
Not a storm,
not thunder,
not the kind of ruin
that announces itself.
Just an overcast silence
rolling between us,
turning bright fields silver,
stealing shadows from the ground.
I watched the sunlight fade
from your eyes before I knew
I was standing alone beneath it.
Now I wander that same landscape,
remembering how it once glowed,
searching for warmth
in a sky that no longer remembers the sun.
And still,
when the clouds hang low
and the world grows dim,
I swear I can see
a trace of that golden morning,
the ghost of a beautiful day
before it learned how to mourn.