Grammar of Your Absence
The gate creaks open—
not with iron hinges
but the hush of your breath
caught between my ribs.
I swing it wide—
no lock, no chain,
only the pulse of a heart
that learned to beat
in the grammar of your absence.
Love steps out:
no wings, no wind,
just the slow glide
of a secret learning to stand.
It lands on your tongue
like velvet pressed to cotton,
rumpling the silence
we folded away.
Those wrinkles?
Not age—
but the creases of a letter
folded, unfolded,
folded again
each time I almost said your name.
Your eyes are wide open—
they see the feast
your love sets before my fear,
how it devours
the last brave syllable
until my voice is a hollow reed
whistling cowardice.
I kick at the dark,
curse its weight,
yet every word is a stone
I swallow back down.
Pressed to speak,
I choke on the rattle
of unsaid amour—
waves of passion
breaking without sound,
leaving an ache
soaked in persistent plea
you never let yourself hear.
Come closer.
The gate is open.
Let the ache speak—
if only your ears
would open too.
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