Silence is deceased as your language
Although a code
Of the timing, tone, height of your voice
The tilt of your glasses, to the curve of the jaw
The dimming and scatter of my freckles
To what we saw

Sneaking across the field of unspoken words
But stooping along my front steps of my world
Why do whales roam  with their dead calf
Even though their demise is foretold?
Some beings cannot live without their other half

The living of the delicate swan
Or peace of the sleeping man
What shall we do without his hand?

Fragile to touch, scared to break, to wake,
To bother.
What if his life is still tethered
When dead, you shall cradle the being, for pain
It may not be slain
For time had ended it’s due

For the satisfaction of touch, connection
last strand of humanity one was born with
Has withered, the pain, no longer tethered
The air
No longer fair.