Quiet

Quiet drifts through the house,

a breath beneath the boards,

a pulse that stirs only

when the world exhales.

In the morning,

it lingers in the steam of tea,

in the hush before a thought becomes sound.

It doesn’t ask for attention—

only space to exist.

In church,

quiet feels holy,

as if even the air holds its breath.

But in anger,

quiet changes.

It turns cold,

sharp as a stare that lasts too long.

It waits between us,

keen as unsaid words.

At night,

quiet settles around me—

a gentle weight,

familiar,

almost kind.

Some nights it feels like peace.

Others, like absence.

Either way,

it stays.

When all sound has gone,

quiet becomes the body of the room—

breathing, waiting,

alive in its stillness.