You left without saying goodbye this morning,
and I took that silence into myself,
and who knew
that such a thing unspoken could be a fever?
And I, like a spider,
vibrating with secret fears,
wove web upon web about your silence,
until from the rafters, the corners,
the piled up things of our little house,
hung a thousand threads
that would have terrified you.
This is the kind of fuss one can make over nothing,
one abandoned by goodbyes.
Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014