A single year strikes long
in the tooth of night
When all you do is wait.
For fear—we go, we climb
and drag ourselves out of 
despair. 

A hole we dug ourselves,
affixed to the nails, beneath 
the skin, and dusted with a
smile.

It was only a year,
I say, but to believe?
There are only so many 
lies I can permit myself 
to tell.

At the end of the wait, 
behind the chime of a
client that strikes its 
golden mark at the corner
of my screen? 

There.
I found it in the eaves 
between a thumb and forefinger.
I found it in a conversation,
where words were written.

Where voices failed.
Where stories sat only
to tell.