Silence—
a draft in an attic
with nowhere to go
slipping under a door
holding its breath
until it forgets itself.

It is the cracked cup
hidden at the back
of the cupboard
turned upside down
as if laid to rest.

It is the nest
in a bare branch
at winter’s cold fist—
the ache
of having been left behind.

Silence stretches itself
thin—over the night’s spine.
It is the single leaf—
caught mid-fall
held in the wind’s soft hand
never to be let go.

It stirs
a quiet defiance—
the walls ache with it—
heavy as love too shy to speak
fragile as a memory
melting into dark.