Falling for someone is easy. Learning how to become yourself again afterward is the hard part.

Soil on Ice is a debut poetry collection that follows one relationship through five stages: Soil, Frost, Ice, Melt, Earth- tracing the quiet architecture of falling in love, losing it, grieving it, and slowly, unglamorously, rebuilding a self on the other side.

There is a version of love that begins like a seed buried without permission, and grows anyway. There is the frost that creeps in before anyone admits the warmth is leaving. There is the ice, grief measured in decaying orbits, collapsing stars, and the strange arithmetic of missing someone you were never quite allowed to call yours. There is the melt, learning to hold an ache without demanding it disappear. And underneath all of it, there is the earth: the discovery that you were capable of standing long before anyone was there to catch you.

Written in plainspoken, confessional verse, Soil on Ice doesn't reach for metaphor to sound poetic, it reaches for metaphor to make the unbearable bearable: coffee gone cold, a cushion that forgets the shape of who sat there last, a sky arguing quietly between orange and pink, a body that keeps grieving long after the mind has already moved on.

For anyone who has loved someone quietly, lost them slowly, and had to learn, piece by piece, how to come home to themselves.

This isn't a collection about heartbreak. It's about what grows back.Falling for someone is easy. Learning how to become yourself again afterward is the hard part.

Soil on Ice is a debut poetry collection that follows one relationship through five stages: Soil, Frost, Ice, Melt, Earth- tracing the quiet architecture of falling in love, losing it, grieving it, and slowly, unglamorously, rebuilding a self on the other side.

There is a version of love that begins like a seed buried without permission, and grows anyway. There is the frost that creeps in before anyone admits the warmth is leaving. There is the ice, grief measured in decaying orbits, collapsing stars, and the strange arithmetic of missing someone you were never quite allowed to call yours. There is the melt, learning to hold an ache without demanding it disappear. And underneath all of it, there is the earth: the discovery that you were capable of standing long before anyone was there to catch you.

Written in plainspoken, confessional verse, Soil on Ice doesn't reach for metaphor to sound poetic, it reaches for metaphor to make the unbearable bearable: coffee gone cold, a cushion that forgets the shape of who sat there last, a sky arguing quietly between orange and pink, a body that keeps grieving long after the mind has already moved on.

For anyone who has loved someone quietly, lost them slowly, and had to learn, piece by piece, how to come home to themselves.

This isn't a collection about heartbreak. It's about what grows back.