Threshold

The kitchen light catches dust we've stopped seeing, years of small accumulations turning the air solid between the sink and the open window.

You turn away and I watch how the sun rewrites your silhouette, how separation is just another kind of attention, another way the world insists we look.

Sometimes I wonder if distance is a language we never learned— the way we leave things unsaid becomes its own grammar, its own breathing.

The radiator cools. Evening pools in the corners. What we don't touch gathers weight. What we do touch dissolves like breath on glass.