DEATH IS A THIEF WITH NO SOUND

We used to speak in a shorthand of glances,

A language built on old jokes and shared chances.

We were two trees with roots tangled deep underground,

In a world that was loud, we were the solace we found.

But death is a thief with no sound,

It leaves the house standing but levels the ground.

Now I carry a story with no one to tell,

A secret kept locked in a silent, cold shell.

The "remember whens" now have nowhere to go,

Like unposted letters in the winter and snow.

I reach for my phone to send a quick thought,

Then I stumble on the void that your absence has wrought.

They say time is a healer,

a balm for the soul,

But it’s hard to feel mended when you’ve lost the whole.

For a friend isn’t just a person you knew,

But a mirror that reflected the best parts of you.

So I’ll keep our secrets in a box made of years,

Watered by laughter and salted by tears.

You’re the ghost in the melody,

the gap in the breath,

The friendship that lives in the shadow of death.