Cartography of Quiet

I unfold a city of hush on the kitchen table, streets made of steam, alleys of cooled tea. The kettle keeps its small lighthouse pulse, and the window writes rain in a cursive tide.

In the sink, the last plate listens to itself, porcelain ear, moonlit and patient. Soap bubbles drift like soft planets, each one a brief geography of breath.

Outside, the river rehearses its name, dark ribbon practicing the bend of a sentence. A bicycle passes, a quiet comet, and the air puts it away like a memory.

I mark the corners of this hour with fingertips, a compass of skin, a north that is now. There are places only a pause can reach, and I step into them, careful and bright.