The moss stretches thin
across the arms of trees,
clinging the way a chill
catches at the back of a neck.
The pinch before darkness thickens—
I, too,
feel the night settle,
and drape myself
in shadow.

No one asks—
why the sky rests in my chest,
why I lean toward the dark,
why the trees bend closer
each limb bracing
against the silence I carry.

The night knows—
it tightens its hands
around the quiet in me,
kindles something small,
lets it smolder
before swallowing me in.

This is how it feels—
to belong
to something
that will not speak
to kneel before silence
that will never answer back.