Erosion of Quiet

The silence pools in corners where no one listens anymore— a gentle wearing, water on stone, each unspoken word a decade.

I watch the edges soften, how quiet reshapes the things we keep: a photograph bleached by the dark, the particular way you held your breath before saying nothing.

Years arrange themselves like sediment, each layer of stillness a testimony to what we learned not to say. The mouth becomes a canyon, stone-carved by the weight of words that never found the air.

Yet something persists beneath— a deep, unmapped current that remembers the shape of sound, how language once moved through us like water through parched earth, urgent, necessary, alive.