The Grammar of Quiet

There is a language the world speaks only in stillness— the grammar of absence, each pause a vowel breath holds.

Listen long enough and the silence arranges itself into something resembling truth: how the space between heartbeats contains more color than speech, how quietude carves cathedrals in the chest.

The words we swallow become the walls we inhabit, stone by stone, a architecture of all the things unsaid gathering their weight like snow.

But there—where the rain hesitates before the leaf, where light bends into shadow— that whisper is the world finally honest with itself, speaking in the only tongue the heart can truly read.