No one told me
the silence would be so loud.

That after the storm
there would be no sun,
only fog thick as milk
curling through my ribs.

I did not beg for light.
I did not curse the dark.
I simply sat—
hands open,
palms salted with memory.

There was a moth once
that lived in my chest.
Fed on echo,
slept in shame.
I haven’t felt it in days.

I think I may be alone now.

And for the first time—
that does not terrify me.