Written by Drew Lewis
The laughter ricochets like coins on tile,
But none are tossed my way.
I sit among the living noise,
a ghost in flesh and suede.
Eyes skim past like skipping stones,
no ripple where I stand.
My voice, a moth with velvet wings,
too soft to land a hand.
The air is thick with stories told,
with jokes that bloom then fade—
but mine stay pressed between my ribs,
like secrets never made.
I wear my quiet like a suit,
tailored, sharp, and neat.
It shields me from the jabs of joy,
the sting of warm defeat.
Yet in this hush, I find a pulse,
a rhythm all my own.
A song unsung, a breath unclaimed,
a silence carved from stone.