The bird sings at dawn, a melody soft and bright,

but it is not her voice—

not the song that once spilled from her lips,

filling these walls with golden sound.

Now the silence swallows the notes whole,

leaving only the hush of loss.

The sunlight drapes itself across the floor,

warm as the brush of her fingertips,

but it does not dance as she did.

She would twirl between dust motes, laughing,

spinning light into music,

turning a house into a home.

Now the floorboards creak beneath my steps,

a mourning chorus, a broken refrain.

The rain comes in whispers,

the scent of wet earth rising—

but it is not the same as the way she smelled

after running through the storm,

drenched, breathless, alive.

Her laughter was thunder, her joy a downpour.

Now only echoes remain,

faint ripples in a quiet sea.

The wind through the eaves moans like a bow drawn slow on hollow strings.

The walls sigh, the door groans, the windows shudder.

The house, once an orchestra, now only knows lament.

Every sound is a ghost, every silence a grave.

I sit among the unseen,

the Dead Musicians’ Support Group,

where we mourn not just those who are gone

but the music they took with them.