The silence
"It is a peculiar kind of grief that never raises its voice."
“I took a photo of us mid-embrace. When I am old and alone, I will remember that I once held something truly beautiful.”
—Joe Dunthorne
It is a peculiar kind of grief
that never raises its voice.
It does not shatter.
It settles.
Soft as dust,
finding every surface
you forgot could ache.
The silence
of quieted churches,
sleeping forests,
forgotten fields,
empty buses.
The silence
of a room
that still believes
you are in it.
The doorway
waiting,
with all the patient foolishness
of love.
Only hours ago,
my mornings began
in the hush
of your heartbeat.
My evenings ended
beneath the soft shelter
of your shoulder.
Now morning
will be only an alarm,
and evening is only
my own reflection
floating darkly
against the bedroom window.
I did not realise
how much of myself
had quietly
wandered into your life
until I came home
and found
so much of this one
still missing.
The air
still reaches
for your laughter.
My hands,
those hopeless historians,
keep remembering
the familiar softness
of yours,
the careful curve
of your fingers,
the warmth of your embrace,
the beautiful certainty
that closeness
once again
had become
our native language.
We grew
into each other
with such quiet ease
that separation
feels less
like leaving
than being gently
lifted
out of my own life.
I know
we are fortunate.
I know
we will speak tonight.
Still,
if grief
is only love
with nowhere
to place
its hands,
then let mine
remain full of you.
I have returned! I was with my long distance boyfriend, so I was not focused on anything else but that. I miss him dearly. Hence this poem. I only left yesterday. It feels unreal. But we shall reunite. My lover.