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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