he loves me, he loves me not

As the petals begin to fall, plucked away by Mother Nature with the changing seasons, she can feel her heart start to heal.

She can feel it in how her spine stands a centimetre taller, elongating her closer to the clouds so that she no longer hunches, she stands. 

She can feel it in the way her eyes look further than her feet, making their gaze up to the eyes of others and on the good days, to beyond. To the buildings that tower above her, the tree branches that dangle above her head, and the mountains that loom far away. 

She feels it in her smile, the way it’s starting to feel a bit less forced, like she’s genuinely feeling the happiness. Maybe she no longer needs the mask. 

She feels it when she cries in the darkness, her tears no longer burning her cheeks, rather becoming more of a reminder that she has felt and is feeling. They begin to become a symbol, like with each droplet she’s getting closer to something, to less pain. 

She feels it in the way she no longer reaches for him, the way he is some days not the first and last thought, but rather one that occurs in the middle. 

Petals will fall and petals will return, that is what nature has taught her. Seasons come and go and with each offer something new and something to say goodbye to. She bids farewell, she says hello, and there’s something reassuring about the fact that it’s simply nature, that heartbreak and love can be a cycle, almost as easily explained as that.