You only miss something when it has gone

You only miss something when it has gone

You don’t hear the clock,

until it stops

and the room feels too still

You don’t notice the way

a chair holds its shape

until it stands empty for days

You don’t taste the warmth

in your tea

until the cup is cold in your hand

You don’t think of the weight

of a hand in yours

until the space feels heavier without it

It is only when the light slips away

that you realise

how much it had been holding you

And only when the echo

has nothing left to answer

that you begin to listen

The clock is loudest

when it stops

The chair is fullest

when it’s empty

A hand is heaviest

once it has left yours

Light is brightest

after it dies

And silence

is the only sound

you hear.