I love the sound of silence as it seeps in from the seams of the ceiling,
twisting its way into me until I am steady and certain,
so unlike the silence of an empty house in the dark that’s steeped in shadow.
secrets whispered from the cracks in the floor contrast sharply with the marble countertop.
knowing I lie in the soft comfort of my bed, blankets twisted like the silence, chest tight, dichotomy of push and pull, asking why as I remember everything of today and yesterday–
yesterday’s 11 was so close,
his face so close in memory, the divot in his cheek fresh, the sinewy muscle of his shoulder steady, like the silence.
steady like my heartbeat as it slows from the nervous patter of intruders
back to warm comfort silence like my pillows
I want to run in the rain and let it drip on my face in fat, wet drops
so loud we wake the neighbors
a cacophony of laughter and noise
Written by Aviva Rosenberg
