The Weight of Small Silences

The silence between heartbeats is a room we've never entered, a door that closes before we can see what's inside.

We wear it like a coat too heavy for spring— the kind that keeps us warm and keeps us still, and we forget which one matters.

Your words don't come, so I count the spaces instead: one breath, two, the shuffle of someone almost speaking. The quiet fills like water in a glass, patient, transparent, weighing nothing until we drown in it.

But there is music in the held note, in the pause before the falling, in the space where light arrives to find us sitting still enough to be found.

Even silence is a kind of singing, if we stop pretending we can hear the other thing.