The Space Between

In the pause between heartbeats, light collects like dust on an old photograph. The trees know this—how to hold still, how to let the wind pass through without breaking.

I watched a bird balance on the telephone wire, its weight barely bending the line. There was a philosophy in that moment, something about taking up space without demanding it.

The house settles at dusk, each board releases a small sigh. We are all just sound looking for somewhere to land, breath seeking the shape of a name we forgot we were calling.

In the dark, the walls breathe with us. No need for answers when the silence answers back.