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http://www.eemp3.com/audiofile/fc6cb3dd79ed064301edbc8462bdfb56.mp3
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You left the lamp on low again —
the kind of light that feels like then.
A faded coat still by the chair,
the kind of still that holds you there.
I make the bed but leave your side.
The sheets still curl where you’d confide.
No words were said, no need to be —
you always spoke just silently.
And now I’m folding into quiet,
into spaces you once knew.
Every sound now feels like silence
that still remembers holding you.
You never asked me not to break,
but gave me room for my own ache.
The kettle sings, but not the same —
the song has edges soft with blame.
The books you left, their pages worn,
still know the lines you’d read each morn.
You’d pause before the final part,
as if you knew my softer heart
would memorize the way you’d breathe,
and not the words you chose to leave.
And now I’m folding into quiet,
like autumn folds into the cold.
You never said how love should find us —
just wrapped it soft and let it hold.
You didn’t try to light the way,
you simply stayed… until I stayed.
So now I fold into the quiet,
where your name still softly grows —
like echoes made from things you carried,
and all the love you never showed.
You were the calm I couldn’t keep,
but gave me room enough to sleep —
to sleep,
with you still breathing in the deep.