In the hush of dawn, the house stands wide,
Walls echoing only what silence can hide.
Crows cry out their morning hymn,
While the mango tree greets me, tall and grim.
Its leaves, kissed by mist, shiver hello—
Yet not one whisper fills the hollow.
The vessels sit still, untouched, unheard,
As if they mourn without a word.
Where are the hands that danced on steel,
That sang to pots with warmth I feel?
Even their silence knows your name—
Their quiet, too, has gone insane.
No toys scattered on marble floor,
No giggles bursting from behind the door.
The house is clean—immaculate, cold,
A story of emptiness quietly told.
It gleams with grace, yet lacks its soul—
No chaos, no joy, just a hollow whole.
I once craved silence, begged it to stay,
A cure, I thought, for nights gone grey.
But this silence is no gentle friend—
It’s a mirage that will not mend.
From the outside, peace looked divine,
But up close, it steals what once was mine.
Your breath—oh love, your breath alone,
Could crack this calm and bring me home.
The hush that holds me like a chain,
Would melt beneath your voice again.
What use are powers, strength, or grace,
If I can’t find you in this place?
So let the vessels clang, the toys return,
Let messy love again burn.
Let breath and warmth reclaim this space,
And paint with laughter every place.
Silence, I now know, is no delight—
It is your absence wrapped in white.
Come back, my chaos, my sweetest sound,
Without you, I’m lost—never truly found.
