The Missed Capture

I follow the sound of branches breaking,

but when I arrive, there is only wind.

Every arrow I carry

is made of questions I never asked.

They rattle in the quiver like bones,

they whisper, too late, too late.

Sometimes I see you in the distance—

not your face, just the shimmer,

the suggestion of a figure

that might be you

if I could name it.

The forest is endless,

but I never grow tired;

I only grow hollow,

like the trees themselves,

ringed with the memory of fire.

To capture you would be to wake,

to end the dream.

And so I miss you on purpose,

again and again—

because the missing

is the only way

I know how to keep you.