I have known three kinds of silences:

There’s the kind that’s hardly noticed—
quickly passing,
and oblivious to its own existence.
Perhaps when we were strangers,
before we met,
before we happened,
our shadows have long been acquainted
in the common streets and crossroads
where we just kept missing on each other.
It was the type of silence
that’s empty and meaningless,
but one that didn’t matter.

And then

there’s the kind that feels like home—
safe and knowing,
as in a miracle, as if a dream.
It was what we had, what we shared
Before the end,
Before we parted.
We were each other’s favorite hiding place.
There was no need for excuses;
forgiveness preceded apologies.
It was the type of silence
you’d always want to have and keep,
but unfortunately you can’t.

And then

there’s the kind that is wounding—
it cuts and probes,
leaving you helpless and vulnerable.
What else do you expect to hear
before you heal,
before you come good?
Sometimes the quiet brings in all the noise,
asking questions like “Why did you give up?”
“What if you can have it back?”

It is the type of silence
that stays and lingers and haunts
for what usually hurts, lasts.