Migrating cranes trace the dark sky just above dormant and slanted beech trees—their crumpled leaves with broken veins staining the pavement like lost tourist maps. On a decaying bench, two lovers swaying and shivering in the languid wind, gazing down at the frozen patches of brown. Pale moonlight seeps in through holes in the shadows to illuminate tired eyes and fingers fiddling with a ring—rusted. Short breaths are suspended like smoke, naked against the frail air. A year ago, at this spot, the yellow beech leaves blended with rays of sunlight to wed into pools of gold that fell across four blushing cheeks. Leaves that just took their last breaths.

a river of stars

final words ricocheting

between two buildings