Threshold

In the space between breath and thought, a moth's wing folds like a prayer no one remembers how to say.

I learned your language slowly— the pause that means forgiveness, the held note that asks for nothing, how absence speaks louder than return.

Some mornings I wake inside the quiet like a room I've always lived in, walls worn soft by listening, light pooling in corners where words were never needed.

You taught me that silence has grammar, syntax of wind through empty hallways, punctuation in the spaces where we stopped trying to fill each other's mouths.

Now I hear the hum beneath everything— the conversation stones have with soil, how roots remember every drowning, how darkness learns to sing.