I stepped outside,
and my legs, unwitting, carried me
through the quiet streets,
a solitary walk with no end,
no beginning,
only the cold,
the unyielding cold that clings to me like the words
I do not understand.
I chased the lights,
dim whispers in the fog,
only to find
they draw shadows from my footsteps,
etching silence behind me.
I saw the people,
moving in their own small worlds,
their hands warm,
their eyes bright with the knowledge
I lack.
And I thought:
Who am I to judge them,
with their light,
when I can barely hold on to mine?
I am here.
I must be,
but it doesn’t feel real,
this place,
this frozen air that numbs my fingers,
this path beneath my feet that goes nowhere
I want to be.
In the cold December,
my cheeks burn red,
my breath breaks
and dissolves into the biting wind,
like everything I have ever wanted,
dispersed before me,
uncatchable.
I do not know where I am going.
Perhaps somewhere
where the lights are kinder,
where people move as though they are free,
not in hurried steps,
not in silent screams.
I used to welcome the cold,
but now it gnaws at me,
shapes my bones,
freezes my thoughts.
All falls still.
Why am I still walking?
Here, where even the trees seem to grieve,
where the wind carries my sorrow
and no one knows.
Here, where you are not.
