It’s funny how loud silence can be

 It’s funny how loud silence can be.

How every creak in the floor
becomes a question,
and every breeze through the curtain
feels like a memory passing by.

The world says you’re gone —
but I don’t believe it.
Because when the noise fades
and the night settles in,
that’s when I hear you most.

Not in bark or breath,
but in something softer —
a hum in the air,
a rhythm in the quiet,
a warmth that stirs the stillness.

Sometimes it’s in the faint tap of the wind
that sounds like your paws.
Sometimes it’s in the sigh that escapes me
when I think your name.
And sometimes it’s in my own heartbeat —
steady and familiar,
just like the way you used to curl against me.

Maybe heaven isn’t far away.
Maybe it’s layered between the hush and the heart —
close enough to touch
if you listen the right way.

So yes, I still hear you.
In the calm before sleep.
In the spaces that used to echo with your joy.
And every time I do,
it reminds me that love doesn’t vanish —
it just grows quiet.

I hear you in the hush, my sweet one —
and I always will.