Silence at the Threshold

Between the thought and its telling, a weight collects like dew on spider silk— the words we gather aren't the words we meant, only their ghost, their echo in the throat.

We reach for precision and find only color, reach for color and find only the memory of it. The thing itself dissolves under speaking, becomes something smaller, sharper, less true.

Yet still we try. Still we gather vowels like stones to build a cairn across the dark, knowing each one is wrong, knowing somehow wrongness is the only honest way to touch what lives beyond our grammar.