In the Interval

The heart holds its breath between beats— a small forever where nothing happens, where light suspends itself like dust in an afternoon window.

I live in these gaps, these in-betweens, the white space between your words, the moment before the door swings closed, the dream you can't quite remember.

Time moves differently here, thick as honey, thin as air, bending light into colors we don't have names for.

If I could make a home of silence, I would furnish it with small things— a forgotten glove, the last word of a song, the exact shade of your leaving.