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Anonomus Scorpio | + Follow Poet |
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When the vow breaks

There's a quiet kind of ache,
deeper than any silence I've known.
It sits inside, a heavy stone,
a loneliness that lives and makes
its home where two souls are meant to be one.
This is the loneliness of being married.

Of sharing walls, a daily spread,
a bed where two bodies are laid.
But still feeling unseen, a hidden shade.
Untouched, though hands might brush or meet.
Unknown, a secret kept, complete.
A hollow echo where laughter once played.

People believe marriage means a built-in friend;
a constant hand, a journey's end
to solitude. They never see
how empty a home can truly be,
when the true connection, soft and deep,
has fallen silent, gone to sleep.

I sit across from her at the old oak table,
the morning light, a pale, faint fable.
I hear her voice, a gentle sound,
moving through the rooms, all around.
And still, it feels like we both live on
separate islands, far beyond.
Close enough to see the distant shore,
to watch the waves, to want for more,
but never close enough for touch,
to bridge the water, oh, how much
I long for just one simple sign.

I ache for something small, and true.
A hand that finds my shoulder, too,
when my spirit feels too heavy to bear.
A voice that asks, with genuine care,
"How are you? Really? Deep inside?"
Not just the surface, where worries hide.
Laughter that would burst and chime,
reminding us of a forgotten time,
when we were more than just two people,
managing bills, a house, a steeple
of routines, a list to tick,
a fragile flame, a fading wick.

Instead, I swallow down the quiet air,
a silent scream, a wordless prayer.
I put on a smile, a practiced, easy thing.
And carry this weight, this sorrow's sting,
of something that should be right here beside me,
a living warmth, a gentle guide, you see.
It's a strange kind of grief, this silent art,
mourning a love that's still alive, a part
of what we are, but never truly breathing,
a still, cold heart, always heaving
with unspoken needs, a hidden sigh.

Being married, but so completely alone,
feels like screaming into a room of stone,
where no echo answers, no sound returns.
It feels like wanting to be held, while burns
a silent fire, beside someone who lies
so close, yet never truly spies
the longing in my soul, the tear I hold.
It feels like standing in a house, so old,
filled with furniture, walls, and captured years,
a thousand memories, a thousand fears,
and realizing that home is not a place,
but a connection, a shared, soft space.
Without that link, that knowing light,
everything feels hollow, day and night.

I tell myself to endure, to stand and stay.
I tell myself to carry it, day by day.
But the emptiness inside, it only grows,
a rumbling hunger, a winter's snow,
cold and wide, within my chest.
There's nothing more isolating, put to the test,
than lying in bed, in the quiet, dim light,
next to the person I promised forever, bright
with hopes and dreams, in a time gone past,
and feeling like I've already been left, cast
adrift on that lonely, separate shore,
wishing for something I can't find anymore.

Copyright © Anonomus Scorpio | Year Posted 2025

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