Edges

Where the page ends and air begins, a threshold no eye crosses, the margin speaks in whispers— all the words that couldn't fit.

The world has edges too, corners where light pools, small geometries of neglect. I trace them with a finger.

What lives in the spaces between things? Not emptiness, but patience. A waiting that knows its shape, the way dusk knows where to bend.

In that liminal space, I find a thickness to silence, the weight of what remains unspoken, holding its breath like a held note.