By Kelly Grace Thomas


The tacenda weighed heavy on the room,

his eyes never met hers,

inhaling all the broken promises timing reserved for someone else.

She would always smell like cinnamon, him like the forest before a first snow.

On a stark December day they felt nothing but the ache of things left unsaid.

So many wishes were made, eye closed, head bowed

 in the whisper of possibility

in the complacency of want.

The month of their love, a landmarked calendar annotated in small gestures of understanding,

moments, like postcards, of what it felt like to be home,

if only for a second.