In the Quiet

I wanted to be clean. By clean I mean: no residue, no transfer, no trace on the glass. A kind of ethical hygiene. Love entered as it does – without credentials – and put its thumbprint on everything I called mine. I called it fate to avoid calling it appetite. I offered

for W.B., honoured on his birthday 23 October 2025 I. It was October, but they sang like April. Their voices wavered – age inside the strain. A red carnation pinned to each lapel. A fado, then a harvest song – off-plane. Born under watch, he crossed a darker path – a child

A bead falls beadlet falls beadfall again hush gathers hush hush gathers again stillness leans stillness leant stillness leaning waits B low drift low drifting low drift lower shadow hums shadow hush hushes again A bead falls beadlet falling beadfall again again once more fracture once more echo once more

Departure begins with luggage limits. A scale claims to decide how much of one life may pass into another. The house has taken on your absence – like damp. The dogs make rounds as if another door might open onto you. I’m in twin minds. Your mess is gone. The

You are not the room. Not the thick air, the chipped mug, the mould on the bathtub. Not the silence that clings to the ceiling, or the rot of hours with no answers. You are not broken, doomed, undeserving, a fraud. Nothing wasted, nothing lost. You’re just stuck – like