I looked down at my boots,

Studied the trailing laces,
And wondered how they
Had come undone.
Were they snagged on a
Small bush, a bramble?
Or in my haste to prolong
The fears I had to face,
Did I duck down and
Untie them myself?

It was a careless murmur,
Spoken on a belated night,
Settling itself in the air
As they spoke on and on.
The words meant nothing
To them.
“Grandma passed away,
Oh yeah. . .”
“Because I love you,
But see. . .”
“Remember your aunt?
She died.”
They were soft words,
Meant to be recieved
Lightly, on silent hands—
But they were surrounded
By so many others, all
Tangled around, until
They didn’t feel real

Anymore.

The foam forms rings
In the tide—
Like blown glass
In the light.


The space between the leaves
Shows the words
We never said.


How lonely it must be
To be the missing piece
Of a set.

The community sat in silence
On the peak of a mountain,

The clouds stretching below
And the chill of dusk sinking
Into their bones like a sincere
Apology.