Static

There is a kind of static
that doesn't live inside old televisions
or between radio stations.

It lives in people.

You can hear it
in the pause before someone says,
"I'm okay,"
when the truth is scratching
against the back of their teeth.

You can see it
in fluorescent grocery store aisles,
where tired eyes drift over shelves
without ever deciding what they came for,
their thoughts humming louder
than the lights above them.

You can feel it
on nights when sleep
stands just outside the bedroom door,
refusing to come in.

Static is the weight
of unfinished conversations,
the echo of names
no one says anymore,
the electricity left behind
after anger has packed its bags
but never truly moved out.

It crackles beneath fingertips
reaching for another hand,
asking without words,
Are you still there?

It gathers in crowded rooms
where laughter is loud
but loneliness somehow
finds enough space to breathe.

It clings to old photographs,
to familiar perfumes,
to sweaters that still remember
the shape of someone's shoulders.

Sometimes static is visible—
a shimmer in summer heat,
dust dancing through a beam of sunlight,
the tiny sparks that leap
between a blanket
and the darkness.

Sometimes it is only heard,
a soft hiss beneath silence,
like the world
trying to remember
the song it was meant to sing.

And sometimes,
when life becomes too loud,
too fast,
too full of voices
asking for pieces of you,

static settles gently
inside your chest.

Not to hurt you.

Only to remind you
that even noise
can be proof
that something is still reaching,
still searching,
still alive,
waiting patiently
for the signal
to become clear.