The weight of the quiet

I carry silence like stones in my pocket,
heavy as shadows cast at dusk,
each one a relic of words swallowed whole,
of moments that pass, untouched by light.

In empty rooms, I listen to walls breathe,
their quiet pulse a secret life
echoing the places I forgot to feel.
This solitude – it clings, it hums, it holds.

Outside, the night bleeds into itself,
a bruise spreading under the skin of sky,
and I wonder if anyone else can feel
how darkness finds its home inside.

I trace the outline of forgotten things,
fingers brushing the ghost of warm voices,
the scent of rain-soaked streets, a flicker of light—
pressed thin between walls that don’t forget.

I sit, let the silence settle like dust.
There is no need to chase it away.
This weight is mine alone to hold,
a quiet proof, a steady pulse in the dark.