The Weight of a Shared Silence

There was a time

when words wandered freely between us—

soft as lamp-smoke at dusk,

lingering between tea cups

and unfinished songs.

Now,

there is only the silence—

not absence, not distance,

but the dense hush

of two hearts

still breathing the same weather,

but forgetting the sound of rain.

You sit, I know,

not far—

perhaps behind a window grown quiet

with too many yesterdays,

your fingers resting on old wood,

the way mine do

on this folded letter.

We were once

the evening tide—

ebb and rush,

pull and murmur,

and now?

We are stone under moss,

still touching,

but no longer warm.

How did we get here—

where even a glance

feels like trespass?

Where each unspoken word

gathers dust

like unshed tears

on a locked cabinet shelf?

I do not know

who built the wall—

perhaps I laid the first brick,

perhaps you closed the final gate,

but it stands now,

thick and wordless,

between us.

And yet—

In that silence

there is still something—

not forgiveness, not fire,

but the soft ache

of a shared memory

that refuses to die.

A single cup still waits

beside mine on the table.

And sometimes,

I think I hear your breath

on the other side of the hush—

almost saying my name.

If only one of us

would whisper first—

crack the surface,

let light back in.

But this silence,

this silence has grown

so heavy with love

it forgets how to speak.