When It's Quiet

floorboards breathe,

a light flickers out.

empty room,

empty sound.

(he’s gone.)

six days, no sleep.

i clean — repeat.

erase the shape where you stood,

pretend the silence feels good.

(good... good...)

the walls still hum your name,

I turn it down — it plays the same.

this house exhales your ghost,

I stay still, I host.

when it’s quiet — I hear static.

no tears, just automatic.

every sound cuts too deep,

I breathe — but not to breathe.

(Just breathe... just leave...)

box by box, your shadow shrinks.

the air smells clean, I think.

you left the key, the glass, the past —

everything fades, but not that fast.

if I move slow, maybe it won’t break.

maybe numb is what it takes.

every heartbeat’s one too loud,

so I stay under the sound.

when it’s quiet — I hear static.

no tears, just automatic.

every sound cuts too deep,

I breathe — but not to breathe.

“he’s gone.”

“it’s fine.”

“you’re fine.”

(no, you’re not.)

when it’s quiet — I fade thin,

no pain, no noise, no skin.

maybe this is how I heal,

by not feeling what I feel.

(Silence...)