The Weight of Quiet

Silence has weight— a snow that collects on the eaves of bone, each flake another word we didn't say.

The empty rooms remember us better than photographs do. Dust motes drift like thoughts suspended in amber light, going nowhere, having nowhere to go.

In winter, the trees are honest. They strip themselves bare, show the architecture of longing beneath, the way branches reach for something they'll never name.

We carry small griefs in our pockets: a ticket stub, a stone from a river, the weight of what we chose not to speak. Light finds the cracks. Time pools there.