The Shape of Silence

When language breaks, silence speaks—aching, tender, and profoundly alive.

I tried to name the space between
what’s gone, what’s left, what might have been.
But words collapse where ache begins —
their bones too soft to hold the wind.

I spoke in rhythm, breath, and light;
my tongue caught fire, my throat turned white.
Some truths can’t live in black or write —
they burn beneath the edge of night.

So silence takes its holy place,
a trembling pulse I can’t erase.
It hums like loss, it breathes like grace —
and stares me gently in the face.