How the Heart Counts Silence

The heart keeps time in small chambers, a muscle that refuses to whisper. Each beat a small fist unclenching into the dark, into the listening air.

I've learned to count the pauses— the space between one breath and the next, where the body forgets to rush, where the world breathes back.

In the quiet of early morning, a single bird opens its throat and the silence breaks into song, not destroyed, but answered.

We are made of this commerce, sound learning the shape of quiet, the heart's persistent question finding its echo in the body's rest.

Nothing ends here. The silence holds what we cannot say, and the heart, patient, continues its small grammar of becoming.