Silence is a form.
It’s the empty dark house you return to after work.
It’s the coldness on the other side of your bed.
Silence is emphasis.
It’s the rest in between a stanza that makes a note resonate.
It’s the anticipation before the booming thunder that announces a storm.
Silence is a response.
It’s the unanswered messages and unreturned phone calls.
It’s a dark screen that you stare at hoping for someone to acknowledge your existence.
Silence is a weight.
It’s the heaviness you feel in your chest as you try to make it through another week.
It’s the pressure building in your head until you scream but no one can hear you.
Silence is final.
It’s your weary bones being put to rest.
It’s all the words that they wished they would’ve said.
Prose