The Weight of Unspoken Words

There are whole rooms built inside my mouth, corridors of breath I never released, chambers where sound dies before reaching air. You can see them in the pause before I speak, in the small collapse of my shoulders.

The words pile up like snow against a door— clean, deliberate, growing heavier each day. Some have become so cold they'll never thaw, their edges sharp and crystalline with time. Others soften into something unrecognizable, warped by the weight of what comes after.

I know the shape of every sentence I swallowed, the taste of every phrase I learned to fold back into the small chamber of my ribs. They hum there like an empty room at night, like a house breathing while everyone sleeps.

You reach across the table with your hand and I feel the current of what's unsaid flow between us—a voltage made of silences, a language older than words, written in the spaces where we both pretend not to understand.

The heaviest things are always the most quiet.