River Stone

The air is thin now. A vacant, cold place.

My heart is a river stone. 

Smooth from the current, but heavy.

It settled deep when you left the shore.

They say sunlight heals. It is slow work.

A gradual thaw.

I keep coming back to this water, your last view.

The memory is not a fast flood but a quiet, steady tide.

I found your old note, a whispered truth:

"Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise." 

I look at the trees. 

They drop their leaves and still stand.

Healing is simple: it is just learning to stand again.

The pain is now a softer shape, not a sharp edge.

I am rising. I am the willow, wetting my feet.

I am here. I am whole.