60.The Silence Between Broken Things

There was a moment, wasn't there? Before,

when shadows were just shadows,

and the air didn't burn, but now—

everything bends, folding under a weight

that I can't name, that I can't remember,

yet still, it presses, even after the hands are gone.

Did I scream? No, the silence swallowed

what was mine before I could take it back.

The breath was there, wasn't it?

But now it's lost, lost in the air

that never held me, that never listened.

A door was there once, I think,

but it never closed in time,

or maybe it was never there at all.

The space where I stood, where I waited,

it doesn't exist anymore—it's gone, like the voice

I thought I had, now drowned in quiet.

Who moved first? Me or the darkness?

I tried to reach, but the skin folded inward,

bent back under the weight of something

that wasn't mine, something too heavy,

too sharp to hold, but still it pressed—

too hard to breathe, too quiet to resist.

Do you feel it? No, it's gone now,

just a memory curled in the dark

that never leaves, a weight

that never lets go.

And the air—it keeps pressing,

keeps filling the cracks

where I thought I could hide.

What was taken? Everything or nothing,

but the room knows, the walls remember.

The door—wasn't it closed?

No, it was open—

or was it broken before I could touch it?

I try to find the words,

but they slip, turning inward,

falling away before they reach the skin

that never healed, the bruise that never shows.

The hands—are they gone?

No, they're still here,

not real, but in the shadows,

pressing down, always pressing

even when there's no weight left to carry.

But the silence—it stays,

like a voice I never had.

Do you see it? The shadow where I stood,

the place where my breath fell?

But it wasn't mine, was it?

It was taken before I could hold it,

before I could say no.

There was no fight, just the fold of skin

against the wall that never moved,

the air too thin to break.

Was it my fault for standing still?

For not closing the door,

or for not leaving before the silence came?

Now, what remains of me?

A hollow shape where I once stood,

a breath that never filled my lungs,

only pressed too tight,

too close to the edge of what was mine

and what was stolen.

I was whole once, wasn't I?

But now I'm just pieces, scattered in a room

that doesn't remember how to hold me.

The hands are gone, but the weight remains,

the silence remains,

and I forget how to breathe without feeling it.

The room is too small now,

too small to escape the quiet,

too loud to hear anything but the hum

of what was taken,

of what I lost before I could give it.

Did I scream? I don't know.

The sound never came, only the weight,

only the silence that swallowed

everything I thought was mine.

What is left now?

Only the shadow of a body

that I don't recognize,

a skin that doesn't fit,

and a voice that never speaks

because there's no air left to fill it.

The room watches, doesn't it?

It saw everything, but it doesn't say a word.

The hands—did they leave?

No, they're still here, in the quiet,

in the weight that presses

even after the door is closed.

The silence never leaves.

It holds the shape of what was taken,

the breath that wasn't mine,

the skin that bent under the hands

that never let go, even after they left.

Now, I stand in the hollow,

waiting for the light to bend,

waiting for the breath to return,

but it doesn't.

Only the quiet remains,

only the weight of what was broken,

and the door that never opened,

or maybe it was never closed.