Its quiet here
when they are gone.
Blank, white walls
Hold their breath
Stubborn as toddlers.
The lightbulbs sit and burn in silence
Like angry friends
Intent on not speaking first.
I don't even talk to myself.
It feels irreverent
To interrupt the wake,
Observing all the loud, messy laughter
That dies every other Sunday
when the sun goes down.
This extended moment of silence
Reminds me with its nothing pulse
That they are missing.
(c) 2011 Tasha Chinnock
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