it will bloom again

I was cruising along, unaware of the speed.
Was I going slow? Or fast?
Trees passed by.
Behind them, vast fields held the late winter mood—
sleepy, reluctant to wake,
still wrapped in a blanket no one’s quite ready to toss aside.
Not yet.

Because
things fall apart and time breaks your heart
just to show you:
blooming, vivid color is just around the corner.

I sank deeper into the seat.
The muddy road, the bare branches scratching the roof,
the cold, unkept grass—it all felt familiar.
She felt familiar.
We both belonged to this bleak limbo.

She was your girl. You showed her the world
and she didn’t like it.

I was cruising.
She wasn’t.
She stopped.
I didn’t come back.
She didn’t catch up.
And that’s how some things end.

It takes time to climb out of the limbo.
The mud doesn’t want to let go.
The scratches stay just beneath the skin.
But—

you fell out of love and you both let go
and that’s okay.
Because you’re not too slow,
not too fast—
you’re just cruising.

The winter moods.
The silence.
The cold grass wrapped around your body.
The weight of the uninviting mud.
It all makes space
for the softest whisper:

You won’t see her at the back of your mind in her eyes.
And your wildflower—
it will bloom again.