The Hum Between

The hum between heartbeats, the breath before the word, that space where light bends and settles into shadow— I've learned to listen there.

A cup cooling on the table. The smell of rain on stones. The way your hand finds mine in the dark without looking.

These are the places I'm alive. Not in the thunder, but in the dust that falls after, catching light like small, patient stars.

The world speaks in whispers if you're still enough to hear, if you let the noise drain away like water from cupped palms, if you remember that becoming is always quieter than arrival.