I only caught the first half:
“…if you could just see…”
Her voice carried a tremor
that no one else noticed.
The rest dissolved into the clatter
of the café,
the scrape of chairs,
the shuffle of people leaving.
Yet something stayed with me,
a pulse between the words,
the unspoken weight of what never arrived.
Later, the fragment returns –
not the sentence,
but the quiet it left behind,
a small light I can’t name,
that flickers whenever memory calls.
A door left slightly ajar
in a house that no longer exists.
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 3:50 PM UTC
I only caught the first half:
“…if you could just see…”
Her voice carried a tremor
that no one else noticed.
The rest dissolved into the clatter
of the café,
the scrape of chairs,
the shuffle of people leaving.
Yet something stayed with me,
a pulse between the words,
the unspoken weight of what never arrived.
Later, the fragment returns –
not the sentence,
but the quiet it left behind,
a small light I can’t name,
that flickers whenever memory calls.
A door left slightly ajar
in a house that no longer exists.
A fragment of a conversation lingers long after it ends, carrying the quiet weight of what is left unsaid and the haunting echo of memory.
The three poems –”The Evening I almost Held”, “The Part You Never Said”, “The Sentence That Remained” – are companion pieces – three angles on the same unspoken moment, each holding a different shape of silence.
