The thing about silence is that it is a coward
more often than it is a hero.
I trace the outline of your figure where you used to sleep.
I sleep alone more and more, even when you’re
Shadows of old conversations hug my bones,
they keep me up at night and offer no reassurances
when I cry.
You are a ghost in my heart and hearts cannot live
on old memories. They need fresh blood
to push through these rotting veins.
At night I dream I cannot find you, that you’ve
disappeared into the crowd and when I open my eyes
you’re not there, either.