2.The Shape Between Silence

In the fold where thought forgets itself, a shadow

presses—not hard, not soft—just enough to break,

but break into what?

Not breath, not flame, but the space between,

where heat curls without burning, waiting for the touch

that never forms, that never settles into its own skin.

Did it rise? No, it bent, it fell inward

through the curve of a silence too thick to hold,

where hands—no, not hands, but less,

more than touch—unfold without opening,

stretching into air that trembles but never breaks.

What moved? The sheets? No—

only the fold where light remembered itself

in the shape of something softer than fire,

but sharper than silence,

caught between the breath of heat that forgot to burn.

And the body—did it press?

No, it turned, but not toward, only around,

folding itself back into the skin

that never felt the weight of its own form.

Was it flesh? Or something beneath,

beneath the fold, pressing but never reaching.

Do you feel it now? No, not the shape,

but the hum beneath, the sound before the sound,

where silence waits, heavy as air,

waiting for the break that never comes,

for the touch that presses but never lands.

There was a rise, wasn't there?

But no, the rise fell before it could stand,

and the weight of it—was it too much?

Or not enough to break the space

between the hands that never closed

around the body that never held.

Did you hear it? The sound of heat rising,

but not heat—just the thought of it,

a flame without fire, pressing without burn.

But it wasn't touch, was it?

No, not touch—just the shape of wanting

folding into the silence that curled around it.

The sheets—yes, they bent,

but not around, only beneath,

where the fold met the body

and the body forgot how to breathe.

Was it there? No, not the body,

just the air between the breath and the skin,

where the rise slipped before the fall,

and the press came before the touch

but never touched, only hovered.

Do you feel it now? The curve of heat,

sharp but soft, pressed too thin

to catch, too heavy to hold,

a flame that curled inward but never lit.

The hands—were they there? No,

only the thought of them, pressing

but not against skin,

only the air that broke before the breath,

only the heat that rose without burning.

And in the silence—was it heavy?

No, not heavy, just too thick to move,

caught between the sheets that folded

but never wrapped,

that pressed but never held.

Do you hear the hum? It's not sound,

but the curve of air before it falls,

the shape of something that pressed

but never became, always slipping

into the space that didn't open,

that never met the hands waiting to close.

And the rise—was it there?

No, the rise folded before it could lift,

before the breath could break

into the body that waited,

pressing but never pressed,

folding inward without touching the fire.

Did it burn? No, it didn't burn—

only curled, always curled,

into the silence that hummed

but never fell, never broke.

And the skin—did it feel?

No, it bent, but it didn't open,

only pressed into the weight of air

too thick to rise, too soft to hold.

In the space between, was there light?

No, not light, just the shape of it,

folded too deep into the sheets

that never touched the ground.

And the heat—was it real?

No, just the memory of something

that almost burned but never reached

the breath that waited in the dark,

pressing but never falling,

folding but never breaking.

And now, in the fold, the silence hums,

but it's not sound, not touch—

just the shape of something

that pressed before it could become,

that held before it could break.