There was a poem here.
It pressed a pulse between pages,
its breath lingered in the linen.
Marriage was new, and night heavy.
I shaped silence into almost-confession,
words gathered, unsent and unfinished,
absence opening, widening:
the lacuna.
Absence closing, narrowing,
words scattered, unwritten and diminished.
I shaped almost-confession into silence.
Marriage still new, and night still heavy,
its breath faded from the linen.
It left no pulse between pages.
There is a poem missing.