October 25, 2026

Silence.

That which is not there.

Words growing within my chest,

Sprouting into vines,

Crawling up my throat,

Threatening me to unleash all I’ve held.

You listen,

Yet not a syllable is uttered.

Silence.

Does not insist upon the absence of a story,

It speaks for itself:

The deficit of my joyful smile,

My warm greetings,

My loving gaze,

My presence.

That, in itself, writes the ending better than any words could.