The Language Between

Between the words we do not say lives a language older than breath— each pause a room we furnish with the weight of what we cannot shape.

I have learned the texture of silence, how it settles on skin like dust and blooms, eventually, into something neither sound nor absence.

The space between your question and my answer holds its own weather: clouds gathering in the margins, rain that falls only inward.

We speak around the center, circling the thing we both know— that some truths require the dark, the way seeds require the earth.