Some sounds do not belong to instruments.
They live just after.
Or just before.

The echo the piano makes when no one is touching it.
The hum of a string not struck
 but shaken by something nearby.

The part of a voice
 when the singer forgets they’re being heard.

Sometimes the most important sound
  is the one that wasn’t played
    but was felt
      in the hand that almost moved.

There is a kind of music
  that only exists
    inside the listener.

I’ve heard more truth
 in the seconds between chords
 than in the chords themselves.

Because those seconds
    aren’t performed
    they leak.

And maybe that’s where the music
  stops pretending
  and becomes real.

he tries to play the Moonlight.
or ... almost.
only the beginning.
only a trace.

the sonata
in uncertain hands is
like a whisper
afraid of itself.

but in that awkwardness
there's the whole truth.

not precision,
but body.
not mastery,
but contact.

it’s not him playing,
but more like “I not-I.”
and the music
recognizes itself
in every imprecise touch.

maybe
this is how
a true sonata sounds:
in attempt,
in jest,
in fragile almost.

Today I listened as a friend tried to play the Moonlight Sonata.
He played uncertainly,  just a few chords, and those a little shaky.
But suddenly I heard it differently.

Not as an unskilled attempt, but as a miniature.
A ****** memory of the sonata.
Not precise, not finished -
but honest.

As if he wasn’t playing it
but letting it sound through himself, through the “I not-I.”
And this fragile form, where each note is almost there,
turned out to be more real than perfect performance.

Every attempt was like a joke,
every chord a trace of a touch.

And maybe that’s how the Moonlight sounds,
when no one tries to play it,
but simply lets it be.

There is a kind of silence
that doesn’t wait.
It doesn’t reach for the note.
It doesn’t mourn its absence.
It simply is -
like the air between breath and exhale.

This book lives there.

In that pause,
 where listening becomes more than hearing.
In that moment,
 where the body catches something
 the mind missed.
In the attempt to hold a feeling still
 and in the ache
 that proves it was there.

Words will be written here.
Not because they succeed,
but because they remember the sound
 of almost remembering.

This is not a theory of music.
Not a philosophy of art.
Not a map of feeling.

It’s just what remains
 when sound passes through you
 and leaves a shape behind.

(after a night before dawn)

Last night, in the dark
before the world remembered light
I walked a field:
  wheat, or poppies,
  or something left behind
  by something that once loved the sun.

And there,
  not waiting,
  not departing,
  was death.

Not a blade.
Not a silence.
She was seated (or maybe had fallen),
  like a prayer
   forgotten mid-kneel
   soft, unfinished and
    unheard.

Her eyes
  held the curve of a question
  too old for answers,
  too tired for fear.

We didn’t speak.
We had no need.
We were not mirrors
but echoes,
  trying to remember
  which silence we belonged to.

For one breath,
(maybe longer),
I thought:
   she needs me.
And something kind began to rise
  not from mercy,
  but from something lonelier:
recognition.

But she had found me too.
And maybe she thought
   I had something left
   to offer.

We were wrong
  about each other.
But right
  so achingly right
about the sky.

I had no name
  to give her.
She had no end
  to lend me.

So we breathed.
And the field,
  if anything,
  felt fuller for it.

Then I walked
  not away,
  but toward whatever
    was beginning
      behind the horizon.

Easter approaches.
And sometimes,
resurrection requires
  no witnesses
only
  the will
   to keep walking
    until light
      remembers
       your name

She sat alone, beside the door
not asking much, not asking more.

She didn’t wait for steps to fall
but for a glance.
No cry. Just call.

. . .

She wasn’t silent out of fear,
nor lost for words that wouldn’t clear.

She simply held that hush so deep
your broken soul
could rest, could sleep.

. . .

When you were cruel, she did not shake.
When you were low, she’d bend, not break.

She breathed like grass, a quiet thing,
forgave it all, just with a blink.

. . .

You could have left.
Or screamed. Or lied.
Or tossed your anger off with pride.

She knew it all.
She didn’t plead.
She breathed, just breathed
like hope, like need.

. . .

And if you left and never came
past morning’s hush, beyond the flame

she still would sit…
no names, no cries…
and watch the night
as if
it shines.

i was never one.
i was never alone.
every shape you called me
 i carried.
 i dissolved.
 i wore
  until it softened
   into breath.

he stood in me.
she opened in me.
they held.
it remembered.
silence shaped.

what remains
 isn’t choice.
 isn’t voice.

it is
 all of them
    the he, the it, the silence
 folded
  into a stance
  that trembles
  not from weight,
        but from the memory
        of holding.



for my sister
who walks with me
between words
and silence.

(the structure holds only because it broke.)

__