I write these words by hand,
and at the end of each line I wait
for the ink to dry.
And that pause feels like silence.
Like the space between exhaling and inhaling
between waking and sleeping
between closing your eyes to blink and opening them again.
It’s a silence that consumes thoughts.
It swallows them whole
and spits out the bones,
which I then arrange in halting, fragile patterns,
looking for the essence of the thing.
Is this what an image does?
As we march our endless lines
across the pages of our stories?
Does it make us stop, pause, see something between time?
A silence, set free from time, from noise, from movement?
A waiting to inhale?
A chance to see, to feel, to breathe
while we wait for our ink to dry?