Some Wounds Outlast the Weather

by Al Konda

This poem didn’t come from a moment of collapse.

It came from a day that kept going.

Rain on the window.

Hands busy.

The world doing exactly what it always does.

Some Wounds Outlast the Weather is about the kind of grief that doesn’t ask permission and doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t arrive as drama. It settles into rooms. It borrows the shapes of ordinary things. It learns how to follow you while you pretend you’re fine.

What stayed with me while writing this was how absence behaves. It doesn’t vanish just because love once lived somewhere. It circles. It wears borrowed skins. It finds you in lamplight, in the kettle’s sigh, in the small pauses where no one is watching.

There’s a moment in the poem where the speaker admits to playing someone healed. That line matters to me. We’re very good at performing recovery. We learn how to keep our hands busy, how to move forward without actually moving on. This poem doesn’t judge that. It just tells the truth about it.

I once believed love meant there would always be a place to sit safely inside another person — a room, a chair, a latch that opened. Losing that belief hurts in a particular way. Not loudly. Not cleanly. But deeply enough that rain can’t wash it away.

The last lines name what the poem has known all along: love can be a mercy and a knife at the same time. Some wounds don’t heal on a schedule. They don’t answer to weather, time, or good intentions. They simply become part of how we walk through the world.

This poem doesn’t ask for comfort.

It asks for recognition.

Sometimes that’s the most honest kindness we can offer each other.

Read the full poem and analysis tomorrow: https://alkonda.com/2026/02/01/some-wounds-outlast-the-weather/

© Al Konda · The Poetry Elite