Silence hums…
and night mourns the darkness.
It whispers with sighs and shades of sadness.
The loneliness resists
but eventually, it fractures into shadows…
succumbs and surrenders.
And everything else falls quiet except tired, old questions.
The night thrives on silence to feed its hunger.
It is not rushed although in a hurry.
Its appetite longs to author new stories but falls asleep.
Its arms are a magnet for warmth but remain cold.
As the darkness ripens and would-be spectators vanish,
intimacy disappears.
Conversation falters, withers and dries up.
The still night holds out hope, but it bears tender scars.
Deep and hesitant. Some refuse to heal.
They’ve turned into signposts of lost time and lost causes.
The night is a familiar stranger who no longer belongs.
Despite an active imagination…
silence always sits at a corner table.
It ends up playing host to weary internal monologues.
The night is a dragnet of whispered, uneasy thoughts.
It speaks, but in a distant voice.
Its touch – cold, unfriendly and unintentional.
It talks sparingly, but only to win arguments.
Then comes the silence –
that invisible, tangible void between darkness and distance
where time and space connect
then dissolve into routine questions.