Falling Quiet

Books crashed down—pages bent,

scattered like a sudden storm on polished floor.

Her eyes, fixed elsewhere, missed the sound—

a careless plea swallowed whole.

The barista wiped the counter, still,

a dance of dust on dull wood.

No glance, no stir, no trace of care,

just the soft hum of empty noise.

I gathered the scattered words,

pressed them back into tired spine.

Sometimes the loudest fall goes unheard—

silent as the dust that settles.