The Silence Beside Me

There used to be a voice,
soft as dawn,
that filled the empty corners
of my restless days.

Now the air is heavier,
thicker with absence,
and every word I try to speak
falls into the hollow of your name.

The bed feels wider than the night,
its sheets are cold rivers
where I reach and find nothing
but the echo of your warmth.

The streets still remember your steps,
their rhythm carved in stone,
but the echoes have faded,
and only the dust remains.

I whisper to the silence beside me,
pretending it answers,
pretending it cares,
but silence is crueler than truth.

No letters. No farewells.
Only the sudden void you left behind,
a wound without closure,
a door slammed without reason.

People tell me to move on,
as if grief were a train to catch,
as if forgetting were as simple
as turning my head away.

But your absence is stitched to me,
woven into my skin,
a shadow that follows,
a weight I cannot shed.

And so I live, day after day,
with the silence beside me—
louder than thunder,
heavier than loss,
eternal as your leaving.