Layers

At 3:47 I gave up on sleep

and stood at the window where the snow fell deep,

falling on snow that had already fallen,

accumulating in silence,

layer on layer,

indistinguishable,

becoming one.

No wind.

No sound of it landing.

Not even the city's low hum

that usually fills the gaps

between thoughts.

Just white becoming whiter,

old snow accepting new snow

without any distinction anymore,

boundaries dissolving,

difference disappearing

under the patience of falling.

I watched for an hour.

Watched the silence have weight,

have texture,

have a specific quality

that refused to announce itself.

By four I'd stopped breathing,

had been holding my breath,

afraid the sound of it

would damage whatever this was—

this architecture of quiet,

this particular way

the world goes silent

when there's nothing left to say.

The snow kept falling.

I kept watching.

And nothing changed except everything,

everything except

the fact that I was there,

learning about accumulation,

learning that boundaries

don't survive

when enough weight

keeps arriving.