A Name the Forest Knows

A man wanders into the woods.

He finds himself.
His guilt — slick and heavy as river stones.
His shortcomings, brittle as sun-drenched bones.
His doubts, knotted like roots beneath the soil.

He finds his uncertainty,
coiling like fog through lichen-cloaked bark.
His dull heart.
His lack of passion —
a pilot flame guttering in the wind.

He finds his parents.

His father,
shaped by a lineage where men handed down silence instead of tenderness.
His mother,
who once held love, loss, and life in her palms —
a shape he let slip through his hands.

He finds the one hundred missed calls,
the twenty unanswered texts,
the five unopened voicemails —
lanterns that guide the way
he has strayed so far.

He finds the former bonds.

A brother, a sister.
Best friends.
More brothers, more sisters —
in blood, in love, in labor —
their faces fading to silhouettes in the dark.

He finds her smile —
sharp as a sunbeam after rain.
The scent of her hair —
dark and warm as earth after lightning.
The warmth of her touch,
the coolness of her gaze —
a season he could never name.

He finds the words
he wishes he could take back.
The words he wishes he never said.
The words he should have spoken aloud,
not just with the trembling chambers of his heart.

He finds the heartbreak again,
and again —
a wheel grinding the same stones to dust.

He finds his nightmares replayed
in sunlight through the canopy,
flickering like old film.

He finds the tears,
falling like dew after dawn —
regret crystallized
in the morning light,
each drop whispering his name
in the language of leaves
that will not forget.

A man wanders out of the woods,
and still he stands among the trees.