It's noisy here,
people are talking,
chatting,
laughing,
shouting at the top of their lungs,
greeting each other happily.
The stereo on the other hand,
keeps on playing this sad song,
so loud
it could make me
feel this emptiness.
You're gone,
and so is your love for me.
My heart, on the contrary,
remains the same.
Still.
Breathing heavily,
trying to escape death,
and numbness,
and this silent treatment.
You're near,
yet you are so far.
So far
my voice can't even reach you.
My voice which
used to be your music,
is the very sound
you chose not to listen to.
You chose not to listen
because of the noise around you.
The noise of your anger,
and grief,
and madness,
is now your favorite soundtrack.
My favorite soundtrack,
well,
is the sound of my sorrow.
Sorrowful, I'm writing this poem.
I'm writing this poem because
my voice can't reach you anymore.
I've exhausted my lungs shouting,
calling onto you.
Now, I'm using my hands,
using my fingers
to write this poem.
I'm using this poem
to tell you I miss you.
Story