What do I call
this space
where you once stood?
How do I tell
the silence
to be still?
When dinner is ready,
there is no shadow
to dine with me.
In the places we haunted,
there are no echoes or whispers
of your voice.
No trace of your perfume.
No watching the candles
glow, caressing your
bronze skinned richness
alongside my fingers.
Where we lived,
no sighs of love
disrupting the quiet night.
What do I call this space?
‘Loneliness’ is too sad a name.
‘Alone’ is too cynical and stark.
‘Freedom’ is a lie.
What do I call this space?
Come back and tell me.
Beyond Panic 