Death, in the Quiet Morning

Death is not a figure in a cloak,
but the hush that settles in a room
when the phone stays silent.

It is the weight behind the ribs
when morning opens its pale eye
and finds you still folded inward,
a body held like a breath
no one exhaled.

It sits beside you
as you stare at the wall,
as the hours drip uncolored,
as the world moves on
without asking if you’re coming.

Loneliness taps the glass—
a small, persistent sound.
You know its language.
You’ve lived long enough
to hear it echo inside your bones.

And yet—
somewhere under the heaviness,
under the missing voices,
under the questions that circle
like moths around a dim light,
there is a pulse.
A quiet insistence.
A life that has not left you,
even when you feel far from it.

Not a bright flare,
not a shining beacon—
just a warm ember
waiting for someone
(you, or another)
to cup their hands around it.

This is not an ending.
This is a morning
asking you gently to stay.