The silence envelopes me
like a comfortable blanket.
You know the one
the one your mother puts away
in the cupboard for the winters.
It smells
like mothballs
like the memories of a year ago.
The cloth is gentle on your skin,
a soft carress
a lingering kiss
of everything that's been.
There's a fullness to soundlessness.
All the unsaid words
unshed tears
come out to play
as soon as the hectic sounds of the city
turn the street corner and vanish
with the dying rays of the run.
Away from
the crowds
the noise
the hands
the eyes
the "why don't you talk more"s.
This is my favourite time.