Fractured Seasons

I. Summer’s Whisper

We planted words like seeds in soil,

each vow a root beneath the sun.

Your laughter spun the air to gold,

our hands a bridge where rivers run.

The porch swing creaked its lullabies,

while fireflies mapped our tangled nights.

We named the stars—forever, always—

as if the sky could hold our light.

II. Autumn’s Crack

Then came the chill, a breath unkind,

your voice a leaf let loose to drift.

The oak we climbed grew splintered bark,

its branches trembling with each rift.

You brewed your coffee bitter-strong,

I stirred my tea to drown the silence.

Our table, set for two, now gaped—

a chessboard missing all its pawns.

III. Winter’s Breach

The frost crept in through unsealed cracks,

a thief that stole our shared warmth whole.

You wore your scars like polished stone,

while mine bled ink from unsung scrolls.

One night, the porch swing snapped its chains—

a metaphor we both ignored.

The stars we’d claimed went dim and cold,

their names erased, their myths ignored.

IV. Spring’s Hollow

Now dandelions punch through concrete,

where our garden once swore roots.

I find your ghost in coffee shops,

your shadow in unopened suits.

The plates we bought—those porcelain lies—

shatter slow in memory’s grip.

Love, a jigsaw missing edges,

leaves a puzzle we couldn’t fit.

Coda: The Fracture

They say some breaks don’t make a sound—

just tectonic shifts, unseen, unfound.

But I still trace the fault lines’ art:

the seasons we broke, bone by heart.