1

The year has been a dark forest
its small pinpricks of life twinkling
then disappearing like stars of a city.
A darkness that softly weeps.
No promises were kept, the tears of
the trees fall like rain on mushy ground;
what grows from it, we will never see.
We do the bidding of the blackness,
touching the surfaces to know where
we are, but never each other. The story
arc is broken, we know because we have
been gathering wood for a fire. There’s
no match, no flint, nothing that calls to
us from the woods. This loneliness of not
being haunted envelopes us. It is silent.