On What Hangs Between the Lanterns

A lantern drifts, then pauses — not because the wind dies, but because it knows another lantern is near.  They do not speak. They do not answer each other. They simply share the hush that hangs between them.

This hush is not empty space. It is weightless gravity — a waiting that pulls words out of the dark and lets them gather like dew.

What hangs between lanterns is what keeps them from flickering out:
A glimpse of your next question.
A promise you didn’t hear yourself make.
A shape your shadow takes only when you’re looking at the light.

So let them drift. Let them hover near each other. Let them teach you how to dwell in the space between sparks.

There is more warmth there than silence.
There is more becoming there than ending.
There is more you there than you knew to carry alone.