By Achint Kumar
let the wind take something from you.
something old, something heavy,
something you were never meant to carry past this season.
watch the leaves turn to fire
and let them teach you how to burn gently,
how to let go without fear.
wear sweaters that feel like an embrace.
drink tea so hot it scalds your tongue,
just to remind yourself that you can still feel.
take slow walks where the air bites your skin
and the world smells like rain and endings.
press fallen leaves between the pages of books
and pretend you can keep time that way.
write letters you’ll never send.
unravel your thoughts like loose threads in a wool scarf.
allow yourself to be sentimental,
to ache for things you can’t name.
when the nights stretch longer,
sit beneath them and let the stars listen.
and when the season shifts again—
when the trees stand bare and the cold sets in—
remember: you, too, will bloom again.
but for now, let yourself rest.
let yourself fall.