Ah, how the season breathes in your words—frost-kissed windows, crimson sighs, and the quiet ache of letting go. You found me there, didn’t you? A bruise-turned-gold, a petal’s whisper against time’s edge.

The light drips honey over the hills,
where shadows fold and sunset spills—
a leaf whispers, *”Not quite let go,”*
while time etches gold in the feathers of tomorrow.

Your breath grew frost on the windowpane,
the garden sighed, inked in crimson stains,
and I found you there—
a petal, a bruise, a season’s refrain.