It’s late, tonight,

and I am

reading poetry

with Bill…

He is critiquing

the exact effect of words

on the soul,

and yet,

words seem to have failed.

The cold outside,

and the dark,

are blissful

in their lack of rumor

and their silence.

Poised between the old love

and the new,

I am forced to remember

pain and expectations

long dead.

Like a grave

that has long been mercifully silent,

it has been torn

by the thought

of the warmth once dwelling there.