The Way Silence Softens

 There is a silence

that does not pierce

but settles—

like snow on an empty bench,

or breath forgotten

on the windowsill of winter.

It does not accuse.

It does not ache.

It simply arrives

when all the words

have worn through

like threads

on an old, unraveling shirt.

We have said

all we knew how to say.

The rest was gesture,

glance,

the subtle arch of a back

turning toward sleep.

And now—

only the hush remains.

But not the hollow kind.

Not the echo of absence

ringing in rooms once full.

This silence carries weight,

yes—

but the kind that grounds you,

not buries you.

It wraps itself

around the shoulders

like a shawl stitched

from unshed tears

and unspoken forgiveness.

It does not ask you to forget.

It asks you to remember

without burning.

The scent of tea

cooling on the counter.

The book with your note

tucked in page seventy-two.

The way you once said

my name

as if it had just been invented

for your mouth.

All these things live

in the softened quiet.

And they do not fade.

They deepen.

I sit with them now—

not to grieve,

not to rebuild,

but to witness

what remains

when love lets go

but does not leave.

This is how

the heart learns to breathe again.

Not through a storm.

Not through fire.

But through the gentle return

of silence—

not as emptiness,

but as ease.

And this, I think,

is the way healing begins:

A single exhale.

A loosening of fists.

The knowing that even the broken

can still belong

to light.