Residue of Silence

The room exhales its last note, and what remains is not emptiness but the opposite—a fullness that weighs against the eardrums like water at depth.

I can almost touch it, this texture of what was, the way a song leaves its ghost in the corners, in the molecules, refusing to dissolve completely.

Even silence has a shape, a geography of forgetting where your voice still echoes in the space between heartbeats, in the pause before sleep.

The quiet holds me here, patient as stone, patient as bone, teaching me that absence is just another kind of presence— a room that knows your name.