Not Your Name

another night where the dark folds itself around the ridges like damp cloth and the wind carries the kind of warnings that only make sense if you’ve lived long enough to know what not to listen to.

the kind of place where the old rules weren’t folklore but survival, rules like never whistle in the woods, don’t look into the tree line, if you hear your name, no you didn’t, and if it sounds far away, it’s next to you; if it sounds close, it’s far away,