Another psalm from the quiet fire.
Can you howl when there is no one there to hear you?
Is your passion only for public consumption?
I’m frostbitten by your whispers.
There was a time I needed your touch.
I needed your attention.
Not all of it—just enough to matter.
Not to me.
I needed it to matter to you.
But you blinked, and I shattered.
You turned, and I calcified into someone else’s silence.
They say the world ends in fire or ice—
I know both.
Your heat was conditional.
Your absence, absolute.
Some men beg for war to distract from the wound.
Me?
I just wear the hood tighter,
pull it close like a secret I still want to believe in.
I walk through your memory like a half-burned gospel,
rubbing ash on my skin like anointing oil.
There’s still a spark behind my teeth,
but no one’s left to kiss the smoke.
And even now—
when I speak,
my voice curls like steam
off a pot no one stayed to stir.
…and silence never needed an audience.
Memoirs of Madness 