# Writing Silence The blank page stares back— a mirror made of nothing, demanding I become what I cannot name. Words gather like dust in the corners of thought, each one a small betrayal of what meant to be said. I write silence the way a sculptor carves stone: removing everything until only the shape remains. The spaces between letters hold more truth than language— the pause before a confession, the breath before goodbye. What speaks loudest wears no sound. What matters most dissolves on the tongue. I chase the unsayable across these white acres, knowing the poem lives in what I leave out, in the gap where your name would have been, in the line I crossed through but cannot erase, in the silence that opens like a door I never learned how to close.