The Space Between

In the pause between heartbeats, where sound hasn't yet found shape, a whisper lives—not quite born, not quite forgotten.

Two people sit on worn stone, their hands inches apart, a continent of breath, a universe of wanting nothing more than this: the hum of presence.

Words arrive like birds uncertain of their landing. Some settle. Some spiral back into the throat. The unsaid carries more weight than all our sentences, heavier than the sky pressing down its blue.

And still we keep the space. We tend it like a garden, knowing that some gardens bloom only when left to their own measure of neglect.

The world asks us to fill every silence, but here—here in the margin between us— is where the real conversation lives, in the architecture of what we dare not name.