Today, the forecast in Avernus: heavy fog; flash flood warnings; rising tides from the River Cocytus and Acheron. “New at 11, we’ll see that despite our individual attempts at self-control, lamenting and sorrow will continue spilling into the future,” the weatherman drones,and haunted, I think of those ghosts with clipped wingsclicking their tongues at me,cacophonies of grief in oblivion;and I think of skies in winter,fields of baby’s breath punctured by wildfires andrainstorms swelling with curling smoke,flocks of gray cutting into blue. After November burned into April, I mournedover memory graves hiding in Lethean shallows;you only laughed — like rattling dice,and I remembered turning around, hearingthe fragments of a “Goodbye.” But today, leaving Avernus, I glanced back to seeyou alone, drowning in depths ofStygian foam.