I used to drown it out.
Smoke in my lungs,
fog in my brain,
anything to make the silence louder
than the grief.
Dreams stopped visiting,
And I was glad.
No memories, no mirrors,
just stillness in place of peace.
But now,
I dream again.
Not always clearly,
not always kindly
but the echoes have shape.
And the silence has words.
They come in pieces
a face, a feeling,
a moment I thought I’d forgotten about
until it played out
like it never left.
I don’t call them nightmares.
They’re too honest for that.
They’re the parts of me
that waited until I could finally look.