December is white
noise creeping into the alleys:
we open the front door
and take in its ghostly timbre.

Outside, night is falling fast
on the fog-ridden streets
as if mistimed. Like any death,
like a fireplace passing out
with burnt whispers of remember—

thus we extinguish another year.

In this month, words are futile:
their temperature so foreign to the air
they vaporise. Outside,
snow is falling like suicides
fizzling out on the pavement, unable to speak.

There should be an afterlife
for each sentence we held back,
footprints we didn’t leave—

but for now, let us keep the entrance shut.
Snow will blanket the world soon.
Let our silence be a lullaby.