we would speak between the lines, little words from time to time, and sounds that would mark our steps, then our ears full of silence and coming down the hill, we would remember the good old days.
*first published in June 2020, edited in June 2021
gray weather, one's wings
as cold as in December
turning to oneself 
My hands, from the cold air hide in my pockets. Dark horizon but following the path, skimming the ground with my shoes in the gravel. Is it sky or earth? 
But then there are those other ones, the ones who get upset when you are happy. They know who they are.
at the foot of the mountain blocking the sun, words freeze in the violence of the world.