My Boy Ryngkhlem

The Dark Kept One

They walked where others had walked,

where the path held footprints long washed away,

where no one thought to wonder

how much the earth could hold.

Something was missing.

He didn’t know what,

only that the air no longer carried wings,

only that silence had grown too thick

between the branches.

The other night, a dream—

or maybe not.

A wisp of something weightless,

the shape of something that should have risen,

a voice without words,

only the press of a question—

\"What hunger is this

that takes and we\'re worth none?\"

He woke uneasy,

the kind of waking that leaves a mark,

like stepping back from the edge of something

he hadn’t known was there.

Beside him, the other stirred,

but did not rise.

Only uttered, eyes still closed—

\"The night forgets.

Why shouldn’t we?

Let the slings sing and the huntance dance.\"

But the night does not forget.

A breath, caught.

The earth did not catch him.

The trees did not reach.

Only silence moved,

filling the space where he had been.

Morning came, and one walked on alone.

The trees were full.

The sky was clean.

But something had been taken.

And the dark had kept its own.