He asked me to write him a poem and I asked him what the prompt to the poem should be and he replied with, "Spring, I love the spring." He read the poem and told me how deeply moved he was, but I don't know if the poems full meaning was found. This is my first time posting to reddit, I hope it pays off.
Before It Had a Name
I thought spring was just a pattern—
something predictable, explainable,
like all the things people pretend to understand.
But then there are moments
that don’t fit into seasons,
conversations that feel older than they are,
like they existed before either of us noticed.
You speak like time doesn’t apply the same way—
like knowing someone isn’t measured in days,
but in the strange accuracy of being understood too quickly.
I don’t name it. I don’t try to hold it still.
Some things lose their meaning
the second you decide what they are.
So I let it stay undefined—
like spring itself, arriving without asking,
and leaving you to decide what it changed.
Feedback:
Feedback 1
Feedback 2