The Spaces You Don't Fill

The spaces you don't fill are louder than your voice ever was— the pause before you answered, the breath held at the edge of understanding.

Some words arrive too late, already dressed in dust, asking permission from the floorboards and the cup you left on the counter.

In the garden, the rain knows better than to speak. It simply falls, patient and absolute, filling the gaps where sound went to forget itself, where silence grows roots deeper than any tree.

You were always leaving something behind— a thread, a glance, the particular shade of morning that belonged only to that day, that hour, that trembling instant of half-said.

The quiet keeps its promises. It holds what you couldn't.