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The Shape of Silence
In the stillness after bloom,
a quiet breath remains—
folded into petals,
cradled in shadow.
What drifts does not vanish,
what fades is not lost.
A curve, a trace,
a soft unraveling of light.
Time rests in the hollow places,
in the withering grace
of what once opened
to the sun.
Here, silence takes shape—
not in absence,
but in the tender weight
of what lingers.