Tonight our silences walk together
in a cold slow motion
on the same abandoned road
where cricket mantras have replaced
ice clicks under logging wheels.

We go through the motions
toward thinner darkness,
our footprints deep in the road
our walks wear down.

Our feet obey the eyes navigating
a tunnel of trees bent over
a trail of ruts and holes
that could break a leg,
though we now know how to avoid a void,

we who once tried to fill the rifts
with laughing children,
with magic acts,
with house plans drawn in the dark.

Now ahead comes that distant window,
its warm hands of light
leaking out of the blinds
to touch our arrival.
But too like the cold we've come from,

a draft we name and drag in
to haunt the house,
an old wind to blow us further apart,
were we not both moths afloat
on yellow ropes of ghostlight.

We prefer to drift apart in place,
or orbit in the dark and comfort
of familiar pain, where ages hence
we may not remember our names, our lives,
if we ever truly had them,
only see how the light from our eyes ties together,
showing the way home somehow once again.

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