Moon at Half Past Noon

We began as a full chorus,
a noise we forgot had a name.
Then, the gentle muting.
You kept the recipe for that soup I never liked,
but ate, to feel the steam on my face beside yours.
I stored my best anecdote about the mailman
in a drawer you no longer opened.

Our friendship became a game of private hoarding.
We were scholars of the quiet—
not the loud, slamming kind,
but the kind that settles like fine dust, 
until the picture is forgotten.