She was never frightened
of being without sun
because she knew that’s where he was
he travelled down a road where ice splintered his skin
and made a home to melt away in the mountains of his face
when the tears,
airy as raindrops, crawled down his mask
the rivers turn into oceans and drown in the misery of a bus
to the dark of a basement
a concrete box buried under layers of soil
was where the sun soon forgot what his face was
lost to where the flutter of a heart and the sound of dust falling like distraught snow onto a bent head
formed a symphony of sorrow
for which he heeds
I am not the fear
I am not the worry
I am the calm
the one who is ever flowing.