The Spaces In

Light pools in the gap between floorboards— a thin geometry of dust suspended, refusing to settle.

You can live there, in the almost-forgotten, where yesterday's rain collects in the crease of an unmade bed, where moths learn the grammar of darkness by heart.

We are mostly absence, they don't tell you— the space between atoms, the silent conversation between root and soil. What we call presence is just the places where light decides to stop moving.

Some nights I think of all the words I didn't say, collecting like sediment in the quiet between your breath and mine. They have weight now. They have become a country we both live in, unmapped.