Winter feels different for me;
Must I share this decade-old tale?
Winter is both a dagger and a dove,
That drifts past memories so frail.
It was the winter when I met her,
And it was yet a winter she left me.
After that, everything seemed to fade—
All I had was despair waiting for me.
I don't feel sad, neither am I alone;
Could that be a sign of mental illness?
I just don't feel anything at all,
Like a great volume of nothingness.
That winter felt deep, tougher than most,
Or was I just hopeless as a whole?
I said I wouldn't write about it,
But my rhyming has no control.