Hollow Branches - The Long Unspoken

In the stillroom of the dying, Where the breath counts itself in shadow, I am the watcher at the marrow’s edge, Hands in the water of their leaving. The curtains close without a wind, The walls lean close to listen, And every clock in the house Forgets to move. I hold the silence you can’t carry, The weight you never named. I walk you to the mouth of the Hollow, And leave my own footprints there. Your hands are colder than the moon, Yet they remember the sun, Fingers twitching in the language of dreams, As if still pulling weeds in spring. You speak to someone I can’t see— Perhaps they stand beside me now. I am only here to keep the room From collapsing in on your last breath. I hold the silence you can’t carry, The weight you never named. I walk you to the mouth of the Hollow, And leave my own footprints there. No choir waits beyond this door, No golden halls, no promised shore— Only the soil, only the root, Only the love that learned to be mute. They call it work, But it is a burial of my own, Every time I wash your face, Every time I fold the blanket, Every time I stay when others leave. I become the last witness, The unmarked grave of your final hour, And carry you until I am ash. I hold the silence you can’t carry, The weight you never named. I walk you to the mouth of the Hollow, And leave my own footprints there.