Too Quiet

The phone receiver, heavy, cool.

Blinked red on the answering machine.

The silence settled, thick, a rule

I hadn't learned, a new, stark scene.

The refrigerator's hum, too loud.

Each tiny click and whir, a shout.

My own breath, a small, white cloud

in this still air, no way to get out.

It wasn't empty, not at all.

It was stuffed with words I didn't say.

And the ones you did, behind a wall

of quiet that just won't go away.

Just listening for a shift, a crack.

But nothing. Just the heavy space.

Like holding breath, and not breathing back.