Surrounded by Silence

The clock still ticks where you once stood, its hands like ghosts that never sleep. Your laughter haunts the quiet wood, and whispers where the shadows creep. The chair you claimed is gathering dust, its cushion shaped by memory's weight. I try to clean—but always must leave something for the hands of fate. The silence speaks in shattered tones, a language built of could-have-beens. I walk alone through hollow homes where joy once lived but never wins. I talk to walls that never care, and sleep in sheets still holding you. Each breath I take is one less prayer, and grief is all that's left to do.