This piece was written in collaboration with someone who submitted the first piece to me, which truly inspired me in a way I have not been in some time.
Unfortunately, this person did not provide their information so I do not have anything more to credit them with. If you are the author, please let me know and I will give you due credit.
Enjoy the piece, Even a Little Lost.
Unnamed Contributor: Snowflakes in your skin melting like little rivers. They are going under your jacket. You feel confused; even a little lost. "Why am I here in this winter forest? Why am I watching this beauty alone?" Your gloves and shoes are warm. Your path is slippery. Trying to remember why you came here… Oh, you tried to calm down your turbulent mind; I guess it worked, Being out here in the middle of nowhere. Snow becomes rain; Rain gets harder, like little spikes coming down from the clouds. It gets wetter, and everything starts melting. Your heart included… But You are determined: "It is better to love with ambition unmet, To love one who is not here, than not to feel anything at all." You wonder this And contemplate your life, Here in the middle of the forest. Thoughts are heavy clouds above you.
Auroraboros: Branches break and Pine needles fall to the frozen snow which crackles Beneath boots tied tight with the laces all the way around So they don't drag behind This is a trick you learned from your father Observing as he tied Those large, leather work boots You were certain he loved so much So much more Than … If only you could wind those laces Around all of the things That never seem to stay in place Those which melt like the snow on your cheeks as Our breathe combines and… "I have seen the end and it is filled with singing," She says, Without much emotion, A small twig in her right hand. *snap* The barren end falls to the ground As she begins to count the needles in the remnant and toss them Into the grainy tracks left in the snow: "One…" "Two…" "Three…" The wind is growing stronger And now the light of day has faded, Leaving the tall dark trees to loom above. She has reached the end of the twig: "Forty two!" A smile As she begins to walk ahead. It has been a cold journey to this strange place Where humans have not yet built their monuments to hubris, And your fingers have lost most of their feeling, But the alternative would be to stay home, To sit by the electric fire And think of all the things that could go wrong. You slap your hands together and howl With pain as well as delight; How good it is to be reminded That pain Is better than the numbness that comes With trying to avoid it.