Books we've never read are opening for us.
Towns shimmer in the night air.
Cold dawns. Warm autumn train stations.
The roads turn like pages. Eyes reddened by wind.

Nothing now but the bookmark of a horizon.
You hold my little finger tightly.
Dew prints ellipses on our path;
Later, coppery shadows line the grass.

The day's reborn. I yearn for longer books.
The Lord plays his music on the wind's viola.
We are as pure and strange as Sanskrit words.
We greet the sun, whom we resemble.

by Marjana Savka

Missing two souls who made it whole

The only chaos I find myself longing for

The laughter, the late-night chatter,

Echoing softly in the corner of my world

The pictures on the walls whispering tales,

Every element echoing a loss too deep to name.

The nostalgia that comes with what once was

A scent that lingers,

The foundation of all I believe,

Etched in the walls

In a place we all call home.