Late-Blooming Sorrow

Months crawl by, but still it arrives,

like mail long delayed, where loss still survives.

I find a postcard, his handwriting alive,

each word a reminder that memories strive.

Edges frayed, dust gathers like tears,

catching me off-guard, entangled in fears.

The laughter we shared, now echoes in pain,

haunting the quiet, where sunlight's disdain.