Sometimes
she enters quietly,
without knocking,
sits beside me
as if she's always belonged.

She says nothing,
but her presence
is heavy.

In the mirror,
I am not alone-
my eyes carry
the silence she leaves behind.

And yet,
in her cold hands
I find something of myself
I had forgotten.

Not every emptiness is hollow.
Sometimes
it is a soft finger
pointing
to what still lives.