How can one describe silence but as an impossible absence?

Even in solitude, one finds company in the echoes resonating off cavern walls— thoughts we wish had remained in the dark.

If a tree falls in the woods, and no one is around to hear, does it still make a sound?

Even tree roots scream in silence as they are ripped from the ground, the forest weeping silently for its fallen brother.

If silence is peaceful, it’s because chaos is absent. If silence is distressing,
it’s because an absence is felt.

Silence is the absence of life.

Pockets turned inside out, Shoes on the wrong foot— The things I thought I knew Feel foreign now.

I once believed I could hold the world in my hands, Only to watch it slip through my fingers.

Now I am a puddle on the pavement, Looking up— Shapeless, trodden, Vast, confined By the edges of my sidewalk mold.

Dead roses still have thorns; their scent still whispers your name. I’ve carried you in my pocket, reaching in to grasp you, as if you had never left.

Your memory is etched into my skin, burrowed deep, lingering for as long as I can remember.

I try to resurrect you, only to watch you crumble in my hands, reopening old wounds—

My mouth is full of copper, my nose filled with the stench of dead roses.

I waved goodbye, Sitting atop the boxes you’d left behind, Watching as you pulled from my driveway.

Gravity came in waves, Drowning me in relief, guilt, and sorrow. I felt the moon yanked from the sky.

I stepped into fresh air, But even the air seemed eager to swallow me. I touched skin, And saw unfamiliar faces wash over me in waves.

Then you appeared.

I tried to wave you off, But you would not go— A shell, carried back to shore.

You brushed the waves from my eyes, Tucking them behind my ear.

We sat on a balcony in Florida, Watching the waves kiss the shore Then pull away, Only to embrace once more.

And like the shore, I could not escape you.

Love like a lemon— Sour, puckered mouth, Rough as a cat’s tongue.

Your way or the highway. At 3 a.m., I’m speeding, Chasing a falling sun.

But even a falling sun is warm, And I find myself In your embrace once more.

When I look in the mirror, I no longer recognize the person staring back.

Her childlike wonder had been replaced by something more volatile. She could feel it growing inside her, threatening to set her ablaze.

Her skin cracked beneath the pressure, and she could no longer repress the fire.

She felt herself transform.

She had shed her skin, her white gown for scales, her halo for horns.

She was hideous. And she was on fire.

High above the city streets, Business suits with hurried feet Pass without a second glance At the quiet pain of circumstance.

And I, a lonely pigeon, fly, Removed, yet watching from the sky. I glide and mourn the stark division, A witness to the human condition.