This is not light.

This pale blue haze
above these houses and tangled undergrowth,
vines encircling
my ankles, the way his hand would
brush the bone dust from my flesh.

This is ten degrees below,
a Hashan morning,
and I am waiting for the snow
to melt, for objects to solidify
the way this formless lath will.

Unformed like the words overheared
through wormholes, I stand knee deep in snow
trying to remember the secret names
of each mark he laid upon me:

Small wounds, wrought with love,
and yet my hands continue calling out
to bind one thing to another
in a way we never were.


Penned by my hand on the 6th of Scarlatan, in the year 445 AF.