I am a hollow chamber
where sunlight dares not linger,
each breath a muted plea
for the weight behind my ribs to lift.

In this room of faded wallpaper  

I cradle the echo of his cry—  

a ghost that nestles  

between my collarbone and spine.

They ask why I’m quiet,  

and I smile: grief is polite,  

a mask I press  

between my thumb and forefinger,  

holding its tremors at bay.

My heart learns to sleep standing up,  

fingertips grazing laughter  

while memory claws at my throat.  

I carry his absence  

like a pinned flower  

in the pocket of my dress.

Oh, how I long  

to sink into that velvet dark,  

to let someone trace  

the hollows under my eyes,  

to hold me until I forget  

there was ever a world  

beyond my own quiet ruin.

But dawn insists on knocking,  

forcing me into crowded rooms  

where I pretend this shadow  

is someone else’s sorrow.  

I become a dancer  

in a play I didn’t write—  

smiling through the ache  

for the son I still cradle  

in every silent heartbeat.