I still charge your phone once a week. Don’t know why — maybe it’s for me. Your shoes haven’t moved but I swear they’ve aged. They sit by the door like they still expect This is the second silence. The one that doesn’t end. Not a pause, not a break — just the part you don’t come back from. Last week I found your keys in the freezer. You always said cold helped you think. I almost laughed — but it came out wrong. Like sound that didn’t finish forming. Like it wasn’t mine to make. This is the second silence. The one that doesn’t end. Not a pause, not a break — just the part you don’t come back from. Sometimes I say your name just to prove I still can. Not for meaning. Not for hope. Just to keep the shape of it from slipping. I’ve stopped telling people the year. Stopped asking where they’re going. I live where you stopped. That’s the only direction that still makes sense. This is the second silence. The one that doesn’t end. Not a pause, not a break — just the part you don’t come back from.
