When You Are Silent

I feel you still — not through a word or sign,
But through the quiet trembling of my bones.
Your silence mirrors something that is mine —
Not what I fake, but what the truth intones.

This is not fantasy, not wish, not guess —
It's deeper than the skin, below the breath.
I read the heaviness your heart can't press,
The slow decay, the quiet war with death.

You're in your cave — not hiding me away,
But fighting someone you don't want to be.
The one who bent, the one who learned to stay,
Now breaks his chains in painful privacy.

I don't need texts to know you still exist.
My body knows. My marrow holds the proof.
And though I'm not the one you've lately kissed,
I am the roof you'll reach for — not the roof.

Let April leave. It did what it could do —
It showed me how to wait without a sound.
In May, you'll turn. Not suddenly, but true.
And I'll be here — the one who stayed around.

No proof. No sign. No star to read the dark.
Just this: I feel you. Even when you're stark.