Something so light, a barely-there breeze, but over time it carves the hardest stone, cuts the densest rock. Hours waiting, hours plunging...hours whispering against it.
It might be a talk, it might be a sigh.
Murmured, escaped...in a day full of discussions and dialogues...and the slight slip of the tongue to emit a sound...perhaps a name...perhaps to nobody at all but to the air.
It might be an echo, it might be a return.
Snippets of times when the voice was all I could hear; knew it the moment I heard it...grasped it like a ledge in a cliff, held it. The outpouring of noise in dulcet tones, a singular music...wearing against me, the stone of me.
It might be a sentence, it might be a hello.
Didn't matter...it was spread towards me and fell upon me in nouns and syllables...brushing past, nudging...sometimes elbowing...a conversation of warm winds and warmer words...strewing by me.
It might be an utterance, it might be snapped off.
Such economy, such little said. Such well-chosen and careful letters...easily erasable...like a hard wind against brittle stone...no trace of being there...of being said before.
It might be noticeable...it might go unnoticed.
The music of your breath pressed warm in my ear...the slight hitch in breath...the slight inhalation before release...the slight shift in octave...the slight speed in heart rate...the slight narrowing of iris...the slight chant of you, the chance of you...the slight and constant delicate erosion of me as you breathe beside me...windswept, windtorn...and waiting.
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