Sometimes silence is silent.
Other times, it is a deafening wave of
sound, swirling
around inside your head,
amplifying sighs, whispers,
countless unsaid words.

Sometimes silence is a
warm blanket, to wrap around
oneself on a cold night, before slipping
into the sort of child-like, dreamless sleep
that adults often only dream of.
Other times, it uses its cold finger
to heartlessly lift your cover, smiling
benignly as thoughts escape like shadows
and linger on the wall.

Sometimes silence is like the best kind
of friend- constant,
non-judgemental, wise.
Other times, it is an awkward
guest, a pleasant surprise when
they arrive, but
then never quite leave.

Sometimes silence is fresh snow,
glistening in the late evening sun,
giving itself up to footprints.
Other times, it turns to ice,
and you must tread lightly,
feet suddenly unsteady; to talk
is to feel
like learning to walk.

Sometimes silence is the 'e'
at the end of love,
completing it, without having to say it.
Other times, it is the silent 'r'
at the end of stranger. Not quite
estranged, but always a danger.