Autumn rain, silver veins on the window,
whisper your name like a candle I can’t hold.
Leaves bleed to rust, time folds into dusk,
your footprints dissolve where the maples combust.
I breathe in the storm, let it scour the ache,
each drop a small ghost I refuse to forsake.
If summer was fire, then fall is the hymn—
I’ll sleep in its ashes till green grows again.