The Weight of Quiet

In the space between your breath and mine, a whole landscape blooms— unspoken names, the way light breaks through leaves that haven't fallen yet.

You teach me that silence is not empty. It holds the shape of all the words we swallowed, each one a small stone weighted down in the chest, waiting.

Memory is a door we keep opening to find the room unchanged, dust settling in the corner where sunlight never quite reaches. Still, we look.

In the end, presence is just this: the weight of you next to me, the hum beneath everything, the music we don't need to name.