The door is closed, the room is still,
and time asks room to work its skill.
It hurts to watch the story end,
to lose a lover, lose a friend.
Yet deep inside your quiet chest,
a wild force will not let you rest;
the self that bloomed before they came
is whole and bright and still the same.
You are not broken, only freed
to scatter light upon a seed.
So let the tears come as they must—
then rise up gently from the dust