Rain falls into black puddles
where the pigeons do not move.
The sun rose once.
The clouds took it back.
Wind drives the leaves across the water
like a story left unfinished.
The air still carries what we burned.
Coffee cools inside the cup.
The sun no longer warms
except the warmth of hands.
Hold the cup.
The cold is already in the room.
A streetlight flickers —
a memory trying to stay.
The cold knows every corner.
We are only holding something warm
for a moment.
Not for long.
The wind grows tired.
The leaves settle.
Outside, the rain continues.
Inside, only the cup remains,
and the dark that has already entered.
Late Autumn
© Copyright: Аесе Гин, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126102202846
Свидетельство о публикации №126102202846
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