Pinokkio696

Between us, even silence has a pulse. It does not sit there empty, waiting for a voice to fill the hush. It moves. It keeps a quiet measure underneath the room. I feel it when the talking stops, and nothing has to bloom. I used to fear the gaps between us, as if quiet meant a door was closing, or a feeling had grown thinner than before. With you the pause is living. It has temperature and weight. It does not ask me to perform. It does not ask me to wait. Your nearness gives the stillness somewhere it can rest and breathe. It is not absence dressed as patience. It is something we can leave alone and trust, the way a body trusts its own unthinking beat. The room stays full. The hour stays honest. Nothing incomplete. I do not need a sentence to confirm that you are here. The silence keeps its rhythm. I can lean into it clear. Between us, when the words have finished, something still remains— a pulse the dark can measure, soft and steady, without names.