The silence remembers you better than I do.
It keeps the shape of your voice
as though each word you spoke
pressed a small hollow into the air.

I have tried to fill it-
with ink, with breath,
with all the small violences of the living-
but it only deepens,
a well that echoes your name too kindly.

Now I speak into the earth,
and pray the soil carries sound.
If you hear me-
know the ache did not fade;
it learned to bloom in ruin.

Brother, I have built you
into every quiet hour.
You are the hush between thoughts,
the hum where a pulse once was.

Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 18th of Celes, in the year 14 AC.