Silence Has Texture

In the space between words, a thing lives— not absence, but congregation. The room fills with what wasn't said.

Dust motes drift through the threshold, each one a suspended thought, golden, inevitable, slow. We listen to the walls breathing.

A leaf turns outside the window. The sound it doesn't make is louder than speech, a conversation in the grammar of stillness.

Your hand reaches across the table. That almost-touch writes poetry in the language of proximity, where being near is saying everything.