The words flee,

towards the ether.

Leaving no trace,

but a veil

of silence.

A silence

so subdued,

there’s no room for

a breath, a smile, or a whisper…

I labor my larynx

in rebellion

to raise the vowels of

places, faces, or names,

but the ridges

of these lips

can only purse

the pledge

of absence,

so there goes

my halted verse.

I am brought back

to the symphony

of a syntax.

One that suddenly


To mend the fault,


to punctuate

our failures,

and so you took flight,

too waxen

for rhymes to tiptoe.

For now,

I let the silence levitate:

unhinged and untethered,

in the hopes that

this jarring

will be no life sentence,

but an echo

that so too,

like words,

shall return.


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