There is a kind of silence that only exists after something has already shifted. Not the kind that feels peaceful. Not the kind that lets you rest. This kind presses in on you. It sits heavy in your chest and lingers in the corners of the room long after everything else has gone still. I noticed it one evening standing in my kitchen. The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that feels unnatural when you are used to noise, to movement, to constant demand. The overhead light cast

It lingers in the corners of a room  a breath that never fully exhales   a weight that neither rises nor rests  like the echo of old, forgotten tales.   The spaces between words those once heavy with meaning   now stretch too long like threads pulled taut   with seams slowly splitting   fraying and raw   A glass left on the counter   its rim smudged faint with time   holds the ghost of what was once whole  now hollow as a half-spent rhyme.   Somewhere laughter echoes   muffle