The Anatomy of Quiet Things

Before dawn hums its first unsure note,  
I sit beside the stillness, tracing thoughts that refuse to sleep.  
Birdsong waits behind the curtain of dark, patient, untested.  
Dreams hover between absence and awakening,  
soft as the breath of a child turning in sleep.  
I wake before the world remembers its name.

***

There is a moment the sky forgets to breathe—  
a stretched silence, velvet and infinite,  
holding within it the faint pulse of light unborn.  
I stand at my window, palms open to the pale ether,  
ready to inhale what the universe exhales next.  
I breathe in the hush before sunrise breaks.

***

Every mark upon glass is a story the night left behind,  
lines blooming outward like veins of forgotten stars.  
I trace them gently, as if mapping destinations  
to the heart’s uncharted corners, fragile yet endless.  
I trace the cracks on the windowpane like constellations.

***

Somewhere amid this waking, faces cross my thoughts,  
half-remembered smiles and the weight of farewells  
that never learned how to close their eyes.  
They move like specters, kind as they are cruel.  
I dream of faces that never quite fade.

***

The earth exhales its secrets in scent—  
wet soil, trembling leaves, air stitched with longing.  
Wherever I wander, the sky follows,  
dripping quiet songs onto open shoulders.  
I carry the scent of rain wherever I go.

***

People speak in storms that tire the air.  
Yet I wait for whispers hidden beneath sound,  
a different truth tucked in pauses and sighs.  
Their meaning breathes fuller in what’s not said.  
I listen to echoes more than voices.

***

Words are frail bridges over restless waters,  
holding all I failed to say, trembling between shores.  
Still, I keep building, plank by hope-filled plank,  
believing that even ruin can become passage.  
I build bridges out of words and watch them tremble.

***

Barefoot through corridors of memory, I wander,  
each thought a stone warmed by forgotten suns.  
What they hurt, they also teach;  
what they quiet, they sharpen into peace.  
I walk barefoot through my own thoughts.

***

The world discards its truths like broken glass.  
I bend to gather them, bleeding understanding,  
repairing the mirror no one else would save.  
Their shimmer becomes my small redemption.  
I find meaning in things others throw away.

***

The unfinished poems on my desk breathe slowly,  
holding my pulse between their lines, incomplete.  
They keep what I dare not show—my trembling, my heart,  
hidden like embers that never cool.  
I hide my heart in the folds of unfinished poems.

***

Sometimes, memory feels like laughter soaked in distance,  
its sound softer with every passing dusk.  
I rehearse it alone so it won’t vanish completely,  
hoping someday it will answer back.  
I fear forgetting the sound of laughter once shared.

***

Forgiveness arrives like rain—gentle, inconsistent,  
healing everything except its own fall.  
I offer it freely, yet hold the ache it leaves behind,  
learning that release can still remember.  
I forgive easily, but never completely.

***

Silence knows all my names,  
it greets me without ceremony or demand.  
In its company, I find both question and cure,  
as if loneliness were a language after all.  
I talk to silence as if it were an old friend.

***

The wind moves through me carrying fragments—  
half-dreams, old summers, echoes of unspoken things.  
I open my mouth to let them pass, not to claim but to honor,  
tasting how the past dissolves on the tongue.  
I taste the wind for memories it carries.

***

Along deserted beaches of time, I gather what remains,  
tiny glimmers of days that forgot their names.  
Each shell holds an echo, each echo a lifetime,  
and together they hum a threshold song.  
I gather moments like shells along a lonely shore.

***

Under lamplight, I meet my shadow and bow.  
We sway to unplayed music, bound by darkness made kind.  
In its rhythm I recover pieces night never stole.  
I dance with shadows when no one’s watching.

***

When words stumble from throat to page,  
their confessions burst quietly, unnamed.  
Language becomes my exile and my refuge together,  
a home only honesty dares to build.  
I write because I cannot speak everything I feel.

***

Sunlight bends through green canopies,  
painting moving prayers upon the ground.  
In its weaving I lose and find myself again,  
as if light were the gentlest way to disappear.  
I lose myself in light that filters through leaves.

***

Moonlight drips in silver fragments,  
collecting in scars and unlit rooms.  
With it, I stitch the torn edges of hours,  
restoring shape to all I thought was lost.  
I mend myself in fragments of moonlight.

***

Evening folds softly into forgiveness again,  
collecting the ache, the wonder, the weight of the day.  
I place it all gently back into the promise of dawn,  
where beginning and ending clasp like old friends.  
I end each day by promising to begin again.