On the evening she departed,

even the moon folded inward—

not dead,

but fixed against its own skin like bone.

We called it a quiet sky.

But it wasn’t to that extent.

The stars held themselves still.

The light relearned itself.

There wasn’t a collapse.

There wasn’t a fire.

The house simply lost track

of how to echo in response.

Her mug sat full.

Her shoes remembered their shape.

The clock ticked on,

but only habitually.

Grief didn’t protest.

Grief withdrew.

It folded itself into ceiling corners

like cobwebs no one would disturb.

And the moon,

the moon was a lesson

in disappearing without disappearing.

In encompassing,

but refusing to happen.

It watched,

as it always did,

but this time

with its face turned softly away