The Language of Waiting

The language of waiting spreads its wings against the ordinary dark— not absence, but a presence that holds its breath behind every sound.

In the hour before dawn, when the city forgets to listen to itself, silence pools in the corners of rooms, thick as honey, patient as stone.

What if it has always been speaking— the space between heartbeats, the pause before words find their shape, a conversation we mistook for emptiness?

It knows the weight of things left unsaid, the texture of longing that cannot break itself open. Silence is the only witness that never turns away, never speaks what it's seen.