You resemble an unspooled coil
brushing the air’s whispers,
dust scattering across noiseless space,
weaving an unmeasured rhythm.
Your breath bends and curves, slips
between shadow and shimmer, touches,
yields, returns where sound lingers,
suspended—quivering against stillness.
A murmur drifts into arcs, folds back
as if something resists release, shaping
what is heard, then vanishes, leaving echoes,
hovering nearer than I remember.
From nowhere, another glimmer shivers,
folds inward, retreats, then leaps,
scattering sparks that cling, then fall,
trembling in the space between.
As if behind a veil the sound lingers—soft, immense,
a circle of motion folding upon itself,
around your closed mouth.
