Birch and Bergamot
I step into her,
into the dense fog that clings to her mind,
swallowed by a veil of cobwebs spun from unspoken thoughts.
I cannot see her.
Her scent drifts just ahead—
sweet, sharp, like laughter I almost heard:
the brush of her hand against mine,
the hollow of her back beneath my palm,
her steps before me, I follow.
Moments flicker like candlelight,
then vanish, leaving only longing.
Her every breath a cold gust,
a whisper of life I cannot touch,
each pause a reminder of absence
brushing my skin.
The wind carries her voice—
everywhere, yet nowhere,
hollow like an echo,
shivering through the trees
until the last leaf has fallen.
Her pulse beats beneath my feet,
a tremor in the soil,
a rhythm of heartache
with every faltering step.
Her love dances in the leaves,
surrounding me, a fleeting embrace,
until gravity claims them—
weighted, they crumble
and melt into the ground.
The earth is damp with tears
I was never meant to see,
its uneven skin carved by grief,
a terrain shaped by pain I cannot ease,
though I ache to try.
The bare trees stand as silent witnesses,
branches bending as if to console me,
or beckon me deeper.
Not a creature stirs,
the ground barren,
shadow and fog, the only harvest.
I stumble forward, closer with each step,
drawn to a warmth I’ll never feel,
always behind, always chasing
the ghost of what might have been.
Enamored by her grace,
entranced by her fire,
too captivated to touch,
too breathless to enter the dance.
And then the fog lifts—
light pierces shadow, clear as glass,
and she is no longer alone.
Another man has stepped where I lingered,
spoken the words I never dared,
taken the step I could not.
I remain in the stillness,
haunted by the pulse beneath my feet—
beating for someone else.
The scent of bergamot fades,
yet fills his air.
The wind carries her breath,
delivering those fatal words in the wrong direction.
The echo of a love admired
but never claimed.
And the forest remembers me—
the one who loved silently,
forever bound in sorrow.
