Muted Pause

No more does the morning

Bird songs signal

Your return on the cusp of a new day,

Nor does the first sun ray.

The silence in our house is deafening

Made worse by all the noises that before

I have never heard.

The ticking of clocks,

Creaking of the floor,

The rustle of the trees

Now startle me.

I wish I had never held your hand

Or ever looked your way for that

Happiness was nothing but a brief shower.

Our house is a bedlam of death as all the

Emotions I had died with each passing hour

This particular night.

Silence confirms that yours died before mine,

For each night your silence became longer,

Now —

It is a muted pause.

Photo Credit Max Pixel