Whispered in the Quiet

I set the table for one,

but your chair still pulls itself out,

a phantom weight pressing softly into the wood.

The silverware gleams like it knows

your hands once held it,

the glass still remembers the curve of your lips.

In the mornings, I hear your breath

in the rustle of curtains stirred by the wind.

Your shadow lingers in the doorway,

a fleeting shape that vanishes when I blink.

I pour coffee for two

and laugh at myself,

but the silence answers like you used to,

warm and patient,

never mocking.

You’re in the creak of the stairs

and the hum of the fridge,

in the rhythm of the clock

that ticks slower now,

as if time, too, mourns.

At night, your absence

wraps around me like a second skin,

but your scent, faint and fading,

clings to your pillow.

I bury my face in it,

searching for the faintest trace of you.

They tell me to move on,

to let go,

but how do you release air?

How do you set free

the spaces between heartbeats,

the echoes that live in your bones?

You are not gone;

you are everywhere.

In the songs the sparrows sing at dusk,

in the way the moonlight bends through the window,

in the cool whisper of rain on the rooftop.

And though I walk alone,

your steps still fall beside mine.

Not loud, not heavy—

just a soft reminder

that love doesn’t leave;

it lingers.