His Quiet Pause

The phone line hummed, a hollow space,

between his words, a measured pace.

He spoke of pipes, a leaking tap,

then paused, a quiet, wide-mouthed gap.

I heard his breath, a distant sound,

or maybe just the air around

his kitchen, vast, and cool, and bare.

A cup then clinked, beyond compare.

It filled the space, a small, bright chime,

marking the passage of his time.

More than a word, that simple noise,

a language of unspoken joys.

Or fears. That quiet, deep and old,

a story he would not unfold.

I waited, then he said 'Goodbye.'

The same old, inherited, quiet sky.