The days arrive and depart,
each one quieter than the last,
like footsteps fading down a hallway
with no promise of return.
The hours spill into one another,
and every face looks the same,
blurred outlines of voices
that do not reach me.
I have tried to fill the silence,
with routine, with work, with anything
that makes the clock seem less cruel,
yet still it beats against my ribs.
Memories linger like smoke,
not enough to hold,
but too thick to ignore,
choking even in their absence.
And when all else fades into dust,
when nothing is left to want or to keep,
the absence sharpens into the only truth,
but its existence is the one I keep longing for.