The river
— still —
not dead,
just holding its breath like it’s been doing for centuries,
like me,
warm-skinned, waiting,
a vein of old gods slicing the belly of the land.

Light drips
thick, slow
like honey from a wound,
slick across willow bones,
and dusk swallows it
without a sound.

Crickets scratch
violins made of rust and dirt,
screaming lullabies for the lost.
Each note
a tooth pulled from the silence,
buried beneath the reeds.

Maple leaves
curl like fists,
anger in amber,
whispers of fire choking the wind—
they’ve seen too many falls,
too many barefoot ghosts
asking the trees for answers they never give.

Bridges bend
like old men
too tired to hold stories anymore—
but they do.
They do.
Their backs cracked with the weight of kisses,
of “forever”s spit through clenched teeth,
wood soaked in the sweat of holding on.

Sun bleeds out
slow
gold leaking into black,
into arms that forgot how to hold anything but
absence.

And the river just keeps
keeps.
Keeps.

Still.
Silent.
A throat never cut
but always open.
Waiting for the moon
to swallow it whole
and call it peace.