Resonant Silence

The city hums like a charging cord left plugged into nothing,
and still,
we glow.
Under freeway constellations and café Wi‑Fi halos
a thousand quiet migrations unfold:
people carrying their lives in passwords, in tote bags, in silence—
sleeping between notifications,
tuning themselves like headphones searching for signal
in a world that forgot its tower.

I have learned the grammar of less,
how a bench can hold the shape of a cathedral,
how a cardboard edge can echo a horizon,
how tomorrow is eaten in glances stolen from bakery glass,
like scrolling through futures you cannot download.
Influencers sell “van life” in amber light and curated dust,
while elsewhere real wheels never stop turning,
their owners orbiting rent like moons denied landing.

When voices leave, I borrow the syntax of wind.
When memory dims, I light it with breath.
Fathers dissolve into instinct,
mothers reorganize as rhythm,
friends thin into echoes stitched inside my ribs,
and I walk on, invisible as background apps,
my identity buffering somewhere between
“logged in” and “who is asking.”

But listen…

One night the bench shifted,
not wood, not iron,
a door.
And every loss I carried unlatched itself

into a room  already furnished:
silence, waiting like a host,
set the table for everything I had let go,
and there, at the head, sat stillness
wearing my name
as if it had been living my life all along.