It's so quiet here.
So still.
I hear a deep, midnight-blue noiselessness made up of a thousand sounds.
My computer humming, and the fridge in the kitchen clunking softly.
A car a mile away.
My dog stretching, claws clicking gently on the floor, groaning softly in sleep.
My daughter stirring so quietly in her bed.
Keystrokes.
Insects.
The wind moving branches across my windows.
Inside my self I'm as quiet as the night.
And as filled with minutiae making up the silence.
And as still.
It's so quiet here.
So still.
So calm.
So peaceful.
I know my bed is warm
and soft
and welcoming.
And I know it's scented with our togetherness.
But I don't want to break the stillness.