We don’t talk about the silence—
how it doesn’t just settle,
but lives here now,
a tenant that never pays rent,
just takes.
Healing isn’t gentle.
It’s the weight of an unmade decision,
the ghost of a touch
you can’t remember
but still feel.
Waiting isn’t empty.
It’s the slow sip of a poison
you agreed to drink—
not because you wanted to,
but because the glass
was already in your hand.
Grief doesn’t break you cleanly.
It weathers you,
like wind over stone,
until you’re smooth and unrecognizable,
even to yourself.
You wake one day
and your bones are made of titanium,
but you move anyway—
not toward something,
just away from yesterday.
The sun rises, indifferent.
Days blur like smudged ink,
and you realize:
time doesn’t heal.
It just scabs over,
leaving you numb.
So you rise.
Not because you want to,
but because the alternative
is to become part of the silence—
and you’ve seen
what it does to the living.
