but the words came, brittle as frost,
Poems
The Leaving.
I had thought it would happen in silence,
like mist withdrawing from the fields,
but the words came, brittle as frost,
splintering between us.
You turned your face away,
as if to spare me
or yourself. The house held its breath,
watching. Even the dog
did not rise from its place.
What is it that ends?
Not love, no. Love
is a root, too deep to sever cleanly.
But the shape of love
the way it held us,
the way your hand knew mine in the dark
that is gone.
Now, I move through the rooms
as a shadow moves through the past.
The kettle sings. A door swings shut.
Nothing mourns.
Even the light,
returning at its appointed hour,
finds only what remains.
The Ascent.
You came here to be changed,
but the air only thinned around you,
the silence grew heavier.
Each morning, the same pale light
washed the ridges clean,
and you thought: today, perhaps,
I will understand.
But time here is not time-
it drifts, eddies,
folds in on itself like mist.
Voices grow faint in the corridors.
Some are lost. Some do not wish to return.
At night, the mountain leans closer,
listening. You press your hand
to the cold windowpane,
watch the breath of the world rise and vanish.
What is it you have learned?
Only this:
that slowness is a kind of mercy,
that illness is a kind of prayer,
that the world below has already forgotten you.
The Curtain.
You wake before dawn,
the room still thick with dreams.
Something lingers in the air—
burnt sugar, gasoline,
a name you almost remember.
Outside, the street hums,
a great machine turning unseen gears.
The traffic lights flicker,
though no one is watching.
A woman in a red dress
walks through your mind,
leaves no footprints.
You follow her—
into the diner, into the woods,
into the flickering film of your life.
Everything is too bright,
too dark. The moon,
a silver wound in the sky.
In the mirror,
your own face looks back,
but slightly altered.
Somewhere, music plays,
a tune you have never heard,
but have always known.
Great work
Yes, very lovely.