The Space Between Sounds

I hear the world in fragments, 

not whole, not clean

Like a song played through water

That forgets to stay still.

Words arrive late to me, 

or not at all,

caught in the space between lips and meaning,

Where sound should have been but isn’t.

People speak like I am catching up, 

like understanding is a race

I was never told I was running.

So I learn other languages 

Not hands, not signs 

but eyes,

the way a brow folds before a sentence turn sharp,

the way a silence shifts when it is not empty,

but full of what I missed.

I nod sometimes

not because I understand, 

but because I have learned the choreography 

of appearing present.

There is loneliness 

in being almost included,

in hearing enough to know you are meant to follow, 

but not enough to know where the path went.

Still, I build a world from gaps.

From blurred consonants.

From half-heard laughter at the edge of a room.

From guessing, always guessing,

and getting it right just enough

to stay in the conversation.

And I wonder 

if sound is the only way people believe 

you are listening.

Because I am here.

I am always here.

Not fully hearing,

Not fully elsewhere either, 

just somewhere in between, 

holding onto meaning

the way others hold onto certainty.