A Lonesome April Without You

As the warm summer breeze returns, it carries the phantom weight of your presence—a cruel, persistent reminder that you were once here. You, who loved this time of year with a fervor I could never match; a summer that reflected your entire being. 

Bright, warm, and terrifyingly full of life. I find myself reaching for the sky, my fingers grasping at the empty wind, half-expecting to catch the scent of the cherry blossoms you used to wear like a second skin.

And as April returns every year like an uninvited guest, I am forced to reminisce about the person you were—and the ghost of the person you could have been if only you were given more time. 

I look at the piano keys and see your shadow dancing across the ivory, feeling the suffocating silence where your music used to bloom. You, who made me see colors I didn’t know existed, only to leave me blinded by the glare of your absence.

Perhaps you could have been a legendary musician who shattered records, or a star that burned far beyond the confines of a wooden stage. You could have been so much more than a memory etched into the cold pavement of my heart. 

I see the world moving forward, indifferent and hurried, yet I am anchored to this month—drowning in the “what-ifs” that you left behind in your wake. I scream your name into the quiet afternoon, but the only response is the rhythmic, mocking beat of my own heart.

As I walk the paths we once took, for a fleeting moment, I swear I can hear your laughter echoing against the wind—only to realize it’s just the hollow rustle of dead leaves. I am left here, clutching at a spring that no longer feels like a beginning, but a beautiful, tragic end. You promised me a season of color, yet you left me in a world that has turned entirely gray.

The world feels less beautiful now that you’re gone. It feels paused, stagnant, as if the universe is holding its breath while your melody begins to slowly be forgotten. I hate this month for bringing you back to me, and I hate it even more for being the one that always takes you away. Nothing is left of the spring we shared, and even less is left of me.