Cartographer of Quiet

I unroll the morning like a paper sea, creases of fog, faint ink of distant bells. A gull stitches the margins with white thread, and the harbor holds its breath, a lanterned throat.

In the market of hours I trade for a compass that only points to what I failed to say. Stalls of oranges glow like small suns cooling, their skins remembering every hand.

I chart the rooms we left: the chair's shadow, the slow choir of pipes behind the walls. Dust drifts as if it has a destination, each mote a letter I never sent.

By dusk, the map is mostly water and hush. I fold it into my coat, warm as a heart. The streets hum low, an underground river, carrying me home by a quiet route.