Halcyon

After the Rain

There it came—the rupture, the crack,
like mud after fresh rain, like sea-salt dusk.
We stayed inside a splintered petrichor hush,
like champagne gone flat—our love, once a glorious lush.

I'll remember the phantom of your cologne
folded in a shabby, creased sweatshirt, alone.
You'll remember the faint red imprint
of my lipstick on the rim of your cup, with a plaint.

Now we remain: dying lilac in late spring,
fallen pine needles soft after the snowmelt ring.
I wish I had captured the smoke of our final campfire,
the crushed mint on your lips, the sweetness before it turned dire.

Like caramelised sugar just past golden,
a love once beholden, now withholden.
Dry ink still whispers our old stories—
metaphors echoing in all our glories.

Like crisp apple peel spun in autumn wind,
Laundry left overnight, withering thin of the orange rind.
Rusted gates breathe train-station air as I ask, What are we now?
Your cold coins echo a lie—we are new asphalt after a bleeding rain.

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