If love must be fragile

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Under the half-blue, half-blush tree,
we do not speak.

Gold lights tremble
not as decoration,
but as small witnesses
learning the shape of our silence.

The notes on the branches
are not messages anymore,
only soft paper hearts
that forgot how to ask for proof.

Snow turns to mist,
mist turns to breathing,
and the world becomes kind enough
to blur its edges for us.

If love must be fragile,
let it be this
two seasons sharing one branch,
and us
staying anyway,
in a luminous hush.