When the Earth Held Its Breath

When the earth held its breath,
and the trees stopped speaking in green,
I found your shadow pressed into the silence—
not like absence,
but like the memory of warmth
left in a chair
after someone has risen.

I did not call your name.
It was already there,
inscribed beneath the skin of rain,
folded into the hush of wheat fields
bowing under the weight of their gold.
Even the wind carried you—
not as sound,
but as the echo of longing
before the voice has formed.

There were no angels.
Only the dust rising
from the soles of tired workers
who knew love by its weight,
not its wings.
And still, the sun leaned low,
willing to touch the dirt
just to reach us.

You were the breath I took
before understanding what it meant
to be hollow
and still full.
You were the salt in my wound
that sang.

Oh, what a terrible, beautiful thing—
to be stitched into another’s silence.
To be the ache
someone calls home.
To carry within you
the whole cathedral of their absence,
lit by nothing
but the soft, persistent flame
of remembering.

And still—
I would carry it.
The ache, the salt,
the tender ruins of your voice
crumbling somewhere
between my ribs.

I would carry it
into the next life
and the next,
and the next—
not because I must,
but because
even grief
was more beautiful
with you in it.

-- Jeffrey Freeman

A poem I just wrote as I sit here missing Noi Noi (my fiancee). She is so far away its hard, but I hope to see her soon.

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