My Life In Word

When Love Goes Quiet

We sleep in the same bed like strangers
sharing a bus ride—
eyes forward, hands careful not to touch.
Your breath is weather I no longer feel,
warm air passing over glass.
Conversation clinks like dishes stacked wrong,
too loud, too thin,
every word chipped at the edge.
I taste distance in my coffee,
bitter, cooling before I remember to drink.
Love here is a radio between stations,
static filling the room where music used to live.
I press my ear to your chest for proof,
hear only the echo of my own wanting.
Even silence feels crowded now,
and I am lonely with someone beside me.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Céline Cao on Unsplash

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