Serapheline

i'm only 18. but somehow i feel late for everything. like i should've already done more, been more, lived more.

every minute feels like a countdown and i don't even know what i'm counting down to.

it's exhausting. it's terrifying. and no one really talks about it.

“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness?”

— John Steinbeck

The frost bites softly at my skin,

a lover who never lingers long,

but leaves behind traces—

roses carved in ice.

The trees, naked in their grief,

whisper to a sky heavy with secrets.

Their branches reach toward nothingness,

fingers trembling, begging for a sun

that will not come.

I walk through this white silence,

each breath a visible memory,

fragile as a snowflake

dancing to its death.

Winter is not just a season—

it is a song for the lost,

a reminder that even the coldest nights

carry the promise of dawn.