Two Months
I think I’m addicted to hoping—
to the way silence
used to mean
not yet,
not an ending,
just a pause in time.
But maybe my mind knows
exactly what it’s afraid of.
I keep getting caught in loops,
numbing it out,
waiting for time to catch up
to whatever I’m still reaching for—
telling myself
this is just a moment,
not something permanent.
It wasn’t the silence before
that broke me.
It was the two months after—
the kind that doesn’t explain itself.
And now I don’t know
how to exist in a world
where your voice
isn’t in it.
And when the loss hurts,
I’m afraid of the day it won’t—
because that will mean
it’s finally gone.
So I sit in the waves,
letting them take me under,
hoping
there’s still a version of me
on the other side of this—
even if right now
I feel stuck
in a place
that won’t let go.
