the impossibility of quiet

It has a texture, a dust
residue. 

Like a reminder after the too loud moment

or like the space between the bruising and the tears. 

It has a gravity,

like the falling feeling as air escapes the room

or an ombré filled space where you once were. 

It is volume,

like the empty cup you keep overfilling with chatter

and the sound as another command hits the floor. 

It is fear,

like the moment after the bump in the night

or listening to you lightly breathing, but actually checking proof of life. 

It is familiar,

like watching a thing long enough to behold it

or like our hands falling into a familiar folded resting form. 

It is the thing you crave, then a thing you fear. 

It elevates will. 

It antagonizes while you await results.  

It takes a beat before expecting to be noticed. 

It is the moment just before acceptance. 

It is the disturbed air warning as the subway shoots past. 

It is indecision between two emotions, fear and excitement, because they both feel the same in my body, yet don't.

And sometimes, sometimes, it is the sleepy gaze from my cat atop the couch.