Silence

Silence.

The whir of air spinning on blue blades,

The crinkle of pillows like moving sand,

Silence.

There are no spirits to blow secrets on

the sides of my neck. There are no ghosts.

There is no laughter kicking throats, nor

Wails, nor a whimper, a suppressed sigh.

Only silence.

Only the enormity of absence,

The severity of the senses deprived.

The walls which echoed the first

Split of atom, the first collapse

Of ice, the first dance of your

Fingers on white keys, on black,

On an orchestration of

Progressions vivid as night,

Song after song after song.

Those big-eared, spy-eyed walls

Now return

None of your dust,

Not a whisper of your sound.

I am compelled to pile:

Taps, rumbles, snaps.

I am scared of lack.

Of melodies that penetrate,
That embed themselves into the stem

Of memories, disillusionment,
That noise which is unlimited

And unstoppable and whole

Until it is not.

And all there is left is silence.