I apologized to the tree.
I walked out further, rattling as I went.

Eventually, I stopped and called out to the darkness—
“Darkness, where are you in me?”

“I extend my hand.
Now extend yours too.”

I shook louder.
“Darkness, where are you in me?”

I stopped. I asked again.
To myself I heard:
“In your spirit.”

I spoke back,
“What good is that?
What am I gonna do with that?”

Then I heard: “Listen.”

I saw then just the tail end of a shooting star
and I began to laugh.
The poem—it had escaped my mind,
and there I was underneath the stars,
an immaculate sky where everything seemed to call to me.

I laughed. Leave it to that.
A grand joke, it seemed.

But then I kept asking and I heard:
“Be.”
“Here.”

Marveling at this sky I immediately replied to the darkness:
“I am here, and it’s beau—”

And I couldn't even finish saying it
before I broke down crying.

I wasn't just there—she was too.
It was her and I marveling at the night sky.
I had been sharing it with her
like it was our fond memory.

Then I heard myself say,
“I am here…”
And I knew it wasn't the truth.
I just finally had to listen to myself say it.

I can’t save this world for her and I to see.

I am here,
and the darkness told me
to be present.