A Quiet Architecture

(from thoughts I never speak)

I dream in ruins—not of loss,
but of foundations never laid.
A house built on maybe,
a window where silence prayed.

I love in hush and half-light,
where truth could tip the scale.
Instead, I send glances
like letters gone stale.

I envy birds who never weigh
the consequence of wing—
they simply rise,
while I rehearse
the weight of everything.

I fear becoming echo,
a voice that missed its cue;
a name that hovered, nameless,
never breaking through.

I hope beneath the clamor,
in chambers veiled and thin,
where longing lingers shapeless—
half a breath, half a sin.

And though I walk with measured step,
my silence marks the seams
of all I might have spoken
in the dialect of dreams.