On the walk home, you lean into the wind.
It’s cold.
Presses its firm fingers into your arms,
tugs at your clothes and tangles your hair like
the grasp of an eager lover.
“You are alive,” it whispers. Beckons.
You feel its breath on your ears. Aren’t you here?
Aren’t you alive?
Feel it —
pain and pleasure and pleasure in pain.
On the walk home, you gaze up at the moon.
You are siblings,
frigid and pale and dressed in black.
Orion greets you, resolute, an older brother.
Ever has he watched over you.
“Where are you going?” he questions.
‘Home,’ you think, but you don’t really know.
Is this home?
Feel it —
uncertainty and life and life in uncertainty.
Lean into the wind. Your feet ache from standing all day,
heels pressing into old inserts and
worn soles.
You won’t remember a single step.
