Weight of the Words

This morning, the words

were soft, like an old river stone,

worn smooth by years of current.

They slipped out before my eyes were even open,

just a warm puff of air against your ear,

no grand gesture, no sudden, bright ache.

Years ago, they were a shout,

a fist-clench, a desperate, clumsy climb

up a sheer rock face, all sharp edges.

Now, the light cuts through dust

in the bedroom, making the air visible,

heavy with tiny, unhurried things.

And the words,

they just sit there, a familiar weight,

like a favorite sweater.

Different. Not less.