(sit quietly near to be where I’m not)
What seems like a void isn’t.
And what’s heard as silence isn’t.
The lack of air that fills my soul, it makes no sound.
No one hears the silent screaming.
Tea. Broadway. Fading lies.
No Giving Tuesday for me.
No Denver, or Ohio, or Scotty.
Quiet is purple.
Quiet is me.
© Michelle Routhieaux 2016