The Space Between

Light arrives in fragments, scattered through the kitchen window— dust motes suspended like thoughts refusing to land.

Everything is translation: the hum of the refrigerator becomes a melody, the shadow of the door frame divides the floor into territories we pass between without knowing.

Some mornings I understand that waiting has its own texture, that silence is not absence but a presence pressing close.

The coffee cools in the cup. The day accumulates. We are always leaving something barely touched behind us.