Dust in the Margins

The words we almost said live here, in the white between the lines— a congregation of ghosts who learned to breathe without sound.

Each silence is a room we furnished once, then left. The furniture remains: a chair that knows your angle, a window that recalls your gaze.

Dust collects on what we don't touch. It's gentle, this accumulation, the way forgetting arrives not like a thief but like a friend who no longer calls, who simply fades into the texture of a habit.

We are so good at not saying things— our hands full of what won't fit in words, our mouths learning the shape of absence, until speaking feels like betrayal, and silence feels like home.