I sit in quiet, wrapped in thought,
Yet silence speaks the words I’ve not.
They shape my hush to fit their view,
A tale unspoken, yet untrue.
She must be bored—her mind adrift,
Or trapped within some shadowed rift.
Perhaps she’s shy, or worse—too proud,
A stranger cold, aloof, unbowed.
They stitch assumptions, thread by thread,
Invent the things I’ve never said—
and when they cannot read my face,
they write a story in its place.
But silence does not mean I break,
Nor that my heart is closed or fake.
Some truths speak softer than the rest,
Not in words—but silence—not less.
So let me be, both hushed and whole,
No need to cage a quiet soul.
For in the space where noise has ceased,
I find my voice. I find my peace.

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