The Weight of Quiet

The quiet comes first as relief, then as accusation— these rooms remember my words the way walls hold light.

I trace the dust with my finger, a map of neglect, while outside the city hums its familiar indifference.

There is a weight to emptiness that no one warns you about, how it settles in your chest like snow that never melts.

Yet in this silence, I hear the soft percussion of living— my breath, my heartbeat, the hiss of tea cooling in a cup.

Maybe this is presence: being alone and knowing it, watching the day reshape itself in the space between heartbeats.