Silence.

My life has gone quiet.
It's a still, small thing,
with a few days in my pocket
as the lights go out
and the outside shuffles
with undetermined things.
It's tucked with little comforts;
my favourite pillow;
a bite of ice cream;
a low-lit fireplace and a moment's peace.

Smiles tilt from one corner of my mouth
to the other,
one happiness in the midst of it,
a new song clipping off the ends of fear
that says it's all silence.
It's calm, a life gone quiet;
it's a phone by my head
that doesn't ring,
fewer letters,
fewer smiles,
fewer complications and softer
easing in and out of the day.
It's a work of endurance,
to be all alone and very still,
like a bird perched on its branch
or a cricket in the corner
who hasn't quite found the time
is right to chirp:
for one, it's not quite morning.
The other, not quite night.
I am somewhere in the centre.

I am somewhere in the vast,
and the miniscule,
and the edging around the fast-drawn
breath that tells me I have so long
to go.
I have made it a few days.
How can I do years?
But the slow-drawn breath eases,
taking my shoulders
and sitting me down,
sitting me down in a comfy chair,
with tousled hair,
a long movie I zone out as I wade
through the thick air
of nothing but household sounds;
my fingers typing;
my cracking voice half-whispering
as I write.
It's like sleeping off the longest day.
It's like holding my breath under water.
It's a curious thing;
bittersweet. Something like a test
and reward and a muddled in-between.
A muffled in-between that cannot speak
as the hours come 'round to match
the silence I am keeping.


November 22, 2009