December 10, 2023 - Rahil Najafabadi’s “Meeting Place”

Off all grids of snowy moments after bed,
the day is just a similar alley and forgotten name.
So I grew to like many stories about the people
and battles between them, and I chose to live
to write to you. Sometimes we say we will call
but we wind up meeting for tea first thing
and the morning gets colder than our drink.
My different notes of unchanging winter tears
always find their way to you. They become dry
and my words become stiff like every attempt
to be someone else. There is no more gold left,
just strange metals I taste in my sleep, and I have
nothing. The missing steps on the stairway are easy
when I can skip a few nights and drift with the wind.
I go up when no one is near, I only climb the light.