Intervals

In the pause between your name and mine, a whole geography unfolds— mountains of unsaid things, valleys where questions settle like fog.

We speak in the gaps, our silences more honest than words, each breath a door to rooms we've never entered together.

The white space holds us both: you in the margin of my asking, me in the silence of your listening, two bookends framing what cannot be bound.

Time moves in the spaces we leave, not in the sentences we complete, and maybe that is why we keep returning to the blank page.