The Weight of Silence

The pause before thunder arrives— not empty, but full of gathering. A held breath becomes a room where light bends differently.

Waiting teaches the skin new languages, how to read the smallest pressure changes, to feel the air's reluctance before it breaks into storm-sound.

There's a weight in the spaces between words, in the gap between intention and touch. Each silence a small weight we learn to carry, then finally set down.

And what remains is not absence but the impression of what was held, the way a stone remembers the palm that gripped it.