This Time of The Year

The table is filled but it seems empty to me

.

.

.

The stove is stained from breakfast but it seems untouched to me

.

.

.

Mornings are filled by the chirpings of the bird but it seems silent to me

.

.

.

Her absence is amplified more than anything,

during this time of the year

It hits the roots more than anytime 

Despite shielded by layers of skin

From time to time

It summons a stream of accumulated emotions;

supressed for the most part of the year

awakens during this time of the year

the cries, the regrets, the memories, the littlest details

A stream of thoughts that seems to never end

A cycle that I know by heart,

during this time of the year