Silence is confusion. 

It’s the world gasping for air. For a moment, nothing to say. 

No bird wishes to call for love, for love may be dead in that moment. A graveyard of

the cacophony of moments before, and after, maybe then a flower field. 

Waves washing over the shore now erode into a well that sits dormant,

and an old woman throws rocks down and thinks of her son. 

Her son doesn’t hear them, for the water drowns out the noise. 

Her son isn't down in the water. 

Silence is confusion. 

It’s the world taking a moment to reflect. For a moment, there’s nothing to say.

No one feels the need to speak, because every word has already been said. And

ones that haven’t are of no use to the human mind; they will not heal me. 

I lay on my bedroom floor, in the dark. 

No light nor words can cover blood. 

And I hear in my head, things I wish I never said, bleeding down my mind.

Is it really that quiet then? 

And the old well-woman heard me speak. 

I say in my head that I tried 

And I think she nods, to herself of course, 

Because I know not even the color of her eyes. 

And suddenly, I feel embraced by something. 

Not hands, nor warmth, but a sound. 

And it’s almost even quieter. 

But the absence is so loud. 

And I knew not her name, 

Or even where she’s from 

Or what she does, 

Or who she loves. 

Except her son. 

And for them, there is now not a moment more of silence. 

And not for me, anymore.