Too Long in Silence
A vignette
I remember the way
the light folded itself,
thin sheets of gold curling
against the window’s edge —
the sky was half-open, soft
like bruised fruit, heavy
and sinking. I could feel it,
that morning ache deep in my chest,
like something left too long
in silence.
Beside me, she stirred
barely a breath between us,
her skin a soft map of places
I’d never been. Her fingers curled
like question marks into the quilt,
unsure, a tangle of answers
I was too afraid to ask —
we had learned each other
like memorized words,
recited but not believed.
I wanted to say something —
anything — before the sun
finished its rise,
but my tongue was a stone,
and the words, the real words,
sat heavy, somewhere
between my ribs,
shattered glass never spoken.
© Ani Eldritch, 2024.
