[Written by ChatGPT]
The rain remembers what was lost—
each drop a ghost upon my skin.
The golden leaves, already crossed,
let go of all they might have been.
Petrichor lifts from tender ground,
a breath of endings, sharp and deep.
I close my eyes and hear the sound
of promises I could not keep.
Red leaves spiral, wet and slow,
their murmur like a half-formed name.
I taste the rain. I let it go.
Nothing here will stay the same.
The earth drinks gently what it takes—
this ache, this rust, this thinning light.
I press my hand to what still breaks
and feel it trembling into night.
But seeds lie waiting in the cold,
their silence patient, soft, and true.
What autumn loosed, what time will hold,
may yet return, remade, renewed.
The rain will come. The leaves will fall.
And still I wait beneath these trees,
to lose a little, gain it all,
when spring leans close and answers me.
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