The Gaps

In the space between your words, I build cathedrals of silence— high-vaulted, austere, breathing light through windows I imagine.

You speak, and the world stitches itself back together, but for one moment the seams showed, the careful geometry of what we pretend to know came unraveled at the edges.

Morning arrives like a letter with no address, the birds scatter their questions across the roof, and I trace the gap between sleep and waking— that thin membrane where everything is possible and nothing is settled.

We are always leaving something behind: the word we almost said, the hand we almost reached for, the version of ourselves that lived in someone else's mind before we became this.

The silence between heartbeats is not empty. It is crowded with what doesn't happen, with the infinite weight of choice unmade, the door that stayed closed, the door that opened.