PALL

By Dorit D'Scarlett

It comes soft-footed,

not cloaked or crowned,

but bare and quiet as fog through a gap in the window.

It does not announce itself.

Just sits at the edge of the bed

like a parent who has come to tell you something terrible.

Its hands are empty,

but the room forgets how to breathe.

The light folds inward.

The air tastes of copper and old coins.

Your name feels too large to swallow.

It does not speak.

Just waits,

with the patience of moss,

the stillness of a mouth that has swallowed every answer.

And when you finally ask,

not what it wants,

but if it remembers you

it only leans closer,

smelling of rain-soaked wool and the end of a question.

#darkpoetsclub