Nights of Silence

I told you I would return to you, with

your books, and notes, and

the fragments of life I stole. That was

twenty years ago.

I sometimes, open those pages and

return to that angled writing, I

have a limp now, and I look into

the floor when I remember your perfect beauty, that

white smile, the glow in your face, those mischievous

eyes that had just risen from

a thousand pillow fights.

There is solace to be had, when lonely,

there is silence, and

the lights of the city- winter is

perfect for observing streetlights-they are almost

fragile. And, as you walk, the dew settles on you, so that

after a few hours, your sweater is as wet as the guilt

you are wrapped in. There was no one to speak to, you exclaim!

and, there was silence you chose to walk into,

the silence whispers back.

Nights of pestilence, soliloquy,

unheard screams, and death. But there are

bigger things than silent poems.