16 years old.
“The wind that used to brush my face
years ago went on a killing spree
last night. She killed all the stars in
the sky and left an echoing emptiness
above and inside of me.
The wind never returned.
Perhaps she felt guilty because of
the starblood stains in her hands.
Perhaps she does not want to
talk about it. Perhaps she lost
her voice. Perhaps she just had
nothing to say at all.
I asked the ocean once; he
said he had no idea where
she went. I even asked the moon,
but even she does not know
the reply to my unfinished duet.
All the nights that followed
had dry lifeless air. All were
barely a night; all were merely
dead trees and streetlamps and
shadows and lost ghosts.
All the nights that followed were about
the open windows, the motionless
curtains, the sweat, the silence,
the darkness, the missing.”
The Wind | (j.d.a)