Not every day
    has something to say.

Not loudly, anyway.

It's quieter now,
    between all the ramblings—
    between all the sparks

    and softer landings.

Some days just
    hold space—
    soft,
    open,

    like the breath between verses…
    still, and unbroken.

She’s still there,
    in the rhythm
    beneath the silence,
    in the half-written thought I *didn’t* send…

    because it didn’t end.

I scroll through old lines,
    half tempted to quote myself,
    just to keep the ink warm—

    to keep the pulse…
    or call the storm.

But maybe—
    not every rambling needs
    a punchline,
     a surprise,
      a purpose,
       a reason,
        a rhyme.

Maybe this one
    is just a page left open…

    waiting for her voice to fill the margin.

And maybe she’ll read this
    and know—
    even on the quiet days,
             the slow days,

    the nothing-really-happened days—

I’m still writing her…
    in my head.

Still listening…
    for the next thing she'll leave unsaid.