Sadness is a hand you believed in, and she, like the dew, vanished with the first light. Dew is sorrow, sorrow is a tear, with which every flower weeps at dawn. The sadness has stilled the wind, cradled in your hair. Sadness is the trace you left upon the sand. Sadness dwells in cold, in wind and in darkness, sadness lives in your waiting eyes. Sadness is a farewell cry, a calendar page torn, and in the eyes of those who have known sorrow. Even for a fleeting moment, in the wind and the darkness, sadness settles in your waiting eyes. Sadness is a helpless child I hold in my arms. I will search for a piece of you now, your face, and in the cold, and in the darkness, and in the dew, I will search for a piece of you. Is there sadness in me?
# Sad Song I don't know what song the evening sings— a lament, perhaps, or something else entirely. The birds have gone silent in the darkening trees, and I sit alone with my sorrow, which is not even my own anymore. Once I knew the names of stars, once I could call them down like old friends. Now I forget even the simplest things: the taste of water, the weight of your hand in mine. The rain falls without mercy or meaning. I watch it streak the window— each drop a small death, each puddle a mirror I refuse to look into. They say time heals all wounds. They say grief grows smaller with distance. But I have learned otherwise: sorrow is a seed that takes root, that grows in the dark places where nothing else will flourish. Sometimes I hear music from another room— a woman's voice, or a violin— and for a moment I almost remember what it felt like to be happy. Then the sound fades, and I am left again with this, this grey and endless afternoon, this sad song that plays on, even when I've stopped listening.
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