The silence sits heavy, unwilling to lift it's head,
Walls sweating with words I never finished.
I stand inside the vibration of something already dying,
And even breath feels like an apology.
My heart will call out that name till it knows no other sound,
Till vowels bruise the dark and consonants bloom,
Till echo becomes habit, and habit becomes prayer,
Till silence learns to speak us back together.
This is the love afterwards,
The ache that permeates every fold of being.
And what remains is the habit of reaching,
The forlornness of promised demise held gently in the throat.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 8:49 PM UTC
The silence sits heavy, unwilling to lift it's head,
Walls sweating with words I never finished.
I stand inside the vibration of something already dying,
And even breath feels like an apology.
My heart will call out that name till it knows no other sound,
Till vowels bruise the dark and consonants bloom,
Till echo becomes habit, and habit becomes prayer,
Till silence learns to speak us back together.
This is the love afterwards,
The ache that permeates every fold of being.
And what remains is the habit of reaching,
The forlornness of promised demise held gently in the throat.
