(revisited and rewritten as a sonnet)
In dying small, such beauty overwhelms—
Each moment precious, painful in its grace;
Your yellow hair, like leaves in autumn’s realms,
Falls soft and brown, time slowing in one space.
We turn the clocks back, grasping at the hours,
While butterflies behind my eyelids dance;
Gold confetti rains, but not for flowers
Nor wedding bells, just love’s sweet circumstance.
Remember when November held our hope?
That final breath of warmth we dared to share,
When autumn’s chill gave life new ways to cope—
A beauty far too much for us to bear.
One last release, we thought would set us free:
A beautiful pain that was not meant to be.