Curate, connect, and discover
There are endings, and there are endings.
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It was snowing, I think, that last day. Snowing the way it hadn’t yet, that year.
The thing with snow:
It wipes away everything you’ve left behind,
Buries it,
like a pirate burying hoarded gold.
We lay down our half-finished hopes, the midnight musings we’d incanted into streetlight-lit hollowness.
Hello! we cried. We are here. We are
Here,
Like footprints in the mud and the branches of a fallen tree jutting up from the ground, we are
Here.
There was moonlight, stealing away our
whispers
like the wind borrows secrets,
like a faerie steals a child.
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Count down from five, love.
The snow is falling, and the stars are bright, and
the moon is listening.
Count down from five—
promise me you’ll remember this is not the
ending it seems to be.
-
—this is what it means to begin (y.c.)