January
The frost still remembers the warmth it devoured.
Your breath lingers on the windowpane —
a ghost that refuses to thaw.
March
The spring that never arrived grew roots underground,
its flowers opening in the dark,
blooming for no one.
May
I remember the rain,
though I’m not sure it ever fell.
The earth smelled like forgiveness,
and for a moment, the air was soft.
July
A summer folded in half.
The sun left early,
and the fields never learned how to burn.
September
Autumn came as a rumor.
Leaves rustled in languages no one translated.
The wind carried names I once knew.
November
Winter moved in too soon.
It built its house in my chest,
left its furniture behind.
And in between,
the blank spaces —
whole seasons that never happened,
only brushed against the edges of time
like hands that almost touched.
This is my calendar:
a handful of winters,
a few springs buried in silence,
a single autumn caught in the throat.
If I ever find those seasons again,
I will not try to live them.
I will simply listen
to the quiet hum they left behind.
About the Creator
Alain SUPPINI
I’m Alain — a French critical care anesthesiologist who writes to keep memory alive. Between past and present, medicine and words, I search for what endures.
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Comments (1)
This is absolutely stunning, tender, melancholy, and beautifully atmospheric.