Four short lines, barely thirty words, and almost every one of them trails off. "Our Silences" is about a love that outlasted the moment when it could have been spoken, and about memory arriving in fragments rather than as a tidy story. The title promises silence, and the poem delivers it on the page. Its gaps, dots and brackets are the material it is made from.
There is no rhyme and no regular metre, but there is a pattern of growth. "So much more…" has three syllables, "I remember…" four, "I (still) adore you" five. Each line is a little longer than the last, as if the speaker were gathering courage. Then the final line breaks the pattern and runs on for more than twenty words. The short lines read like false starts, and the long one is what finally comes out. The first two end in ellipses, so their sentences refuse to finish. "So much more" is especially striking. It is a comparison with nothing to compare against: more than what? The poem never says, and that is the point. The feeling is too large for the sentence that begins to hold it.
The third line is the only complete statement, and its pivot is a single word in brackets: "(still)". Set against "I remember" and the later "used to", it is the one marker of the present. The brackets can be read in two ways. They may be a lowered voice, a confession slipped in as an aside. Or they may be an attempt to hide the feeling that the rest of the poem has been building toward. Either way, the most important word in the poem is the one the speaker half-conceals. "Adore" matters too. It is warmer and more reverent than "love", and it suggests admiration as much as attachment.
The last line is the only one with a physical setting, and it begins with an ellipsis, as though we are joining a thought already in progress. The first three lines now look like the surface of something running underneath. The image is carefully chosen. The speaker sat "smoking on the windowsill of your bedroom window". A sill is a threshold, neither inside nor outside, and the picture suggests someone close to another person's private world but perched at its edge. Smoking is what people do when they are occupied but not speaking, and the smoke itself, drifting and dissolving, is a kind of silence you can see. "Used to" turns the scene into a habit, so the silence was a routine and not a single awkward moment.
The phrasing "windowsill of your bedroom window" repeats the word "window". It could be a slip, but it also sounds like speech, a memory circling the same spot and lingering on the details. Judging by the imagery, the intimacy of "your bedroom" and the word "adore" point toward a romantic bond, though the poem does not say so outright.
The closing phrase, "not knowing anything…", works in more than one direction. It can be the innocence of a younger self, or ignorance of what the other person felt, or of how things would end. Because it is said in hindsight, it quietly admits that the speaker knows more now, and that this knowledge has a cost. The final ellipsis leaves the line open. Nothing is resolved, and nothing is confessed to the person addressed, only to us.
This is where the poem's interest lies. It shows that silence can be a form as well as an absence. The reader has to fill in what "more" means, who "you" is and what was never said, and so becomes part of "our silences". The plural in the title matters. Both people kept quiet, and both share the gap.
We know nothing about the writer beyond the name wordsforghosts, and the poem does not need more. The name does chime with a poem spoken to someone who now lives mostly in memory, though that is only an inference from the name and the text. What the poem offers is restraint. It leaves most of the feeling unsaid, and that makes the few words it does say, especially the bracketed "(still)", hit harder.