The question hangs, a fragile thread
In evening's dusty, silent air.
A phrase so often lightly said,
Now weighted with a mute despair.
I trace its shape against the pane
Where rain has streaked the world to gray.
A simple, soft, familiar strain
I practice every day.
I ask the ghost within the chair
That holds the dent of where you sat.
I ask the empty atmosphere,
The silence after that.
I ask the sweater you forgot,
Still holding some departed heat.
I ask the door you closed, the lot
Of memories, incomplete.
Are you okay? The words take flight
To where the streetlight's halo dies,
To find you in some distant night
Beneath those stranger skies.
Are you okay? The tea goes cold.
The clock dissects another hour.
A story that was never told
Loses its final power.
For in your voice, a guarded tone,
A bridge half-built, a song unsung.
The distance that has gently grown
From when our world was young.
So here I ask the dark instead,
This hollow where your name once shone.
Are you okay? The words are lead.
The answer? I already know.