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What Your Voice Promised
The morning you stopped speaking,
I watched you fold laundry
with the precision of someone
who had decided something.
Each shirt became a prayer,
each towel a small goodbye—
your hands folding away
the breath of silence.
In the kitchen, you point
to the sugar bowl
when you want sweetness.
Your finger weaves circles
in the air when you mean
*again*.
But your eyes still carry
the weight of my name,
and when you smile,
I remember the sound
you used to make
before breakfast—
that small hum
of someone who knew
words could be held
like warm bread in cupped palms.
Last night you wrote
on the back of an envelope:
*I am learning to listen
to what silence keeps.*
This morning,
for the first time in weeks,
you opened your mouth
and let out one word:
*Stay.*
It hung between us
like spring's first bird—
fragile, certain,
finally heard.
Copyright ©
Saeed Koushan
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