Footsteps in the Snow I Left

They said the snow would cover everything,

but it never buried the ache.

Each step I took left behind more than a print—

a ghost of who I used to be,

frozen in motion.

Winter always reminded me

of the long walks after goodbye,

when the air stung like truth

and silence pressed harder than words.

I walked not to move forward,

but to leave behind

what I was afraid to carry.

My boots crunched through grief

like brittle promises.

The sky, gray as old photographs,

watched me without judgment.

Even the trees seemed to lean closer,

as if they, too, had lost someone.

Behind me,

a trail of imperfect shapes—

some deep, some barely formed,

like the versions of myself

I tried and failed to become.

Snowflakes kissed my cheeks

like memories I didn’t invite,

but welcomed anyway.

I passed the bench

where we shared cocoa and stories,

now just a ribcage of frost and wood.

I didn’t sit—

I didn’t want to know

how hollow it would feel alone.

There’s something sacred

about a path walked in pain,

how each step

becomes both question and answer.

I kept going,

not to escape the past,

but to honor it.

To know I survived it.

The wind didn’t speak,

but it listened,

gathering my breath in its arms

like it understood

what I couldn’t say.

Snow softens everything—

edges, voices, even memories.

But it doesn’t erase.

And somewhere down the path,

when spring finally finds me,

my steps will melt quietly

into something new.

But I’ll always remember

the shape of me

in the footsteps I left

in the snow.