Originally written on April 2, 2025.

Tears carve their verses down my silent face,  
A language lost to grief’s unyielding tide.  
Time whispers heal, but I turn aside—  
These scars are stories I’m not ready to erase.  

The past clings close, a shadow I embrace,  
Each memory a thorn I hold inside.  
To let go feels like losing what’s implied—  
That love and pain can share the same dark space.  

The clock stitches hours with a surgeon’s grace,  
But I unpick each thread, let seasons bide.  
Why mend a heart that beats best when it’s wide?  
Cracks hum the hymns no perfect voice could trace.  

Let others speak of moving on, of light—  
I’ll keep these bruises, blue as midnight’s creed.  
For even fractured things can still take flight:  
A mosaic of loss is its own kind of creed.  

So let the years churn. Let the world demand  
A tidy end to tales it won’t understand.

—T.A.