You sit there, close enough to be felt but not quite touched, and I make no effort to bridge the distance. My feet sway idly, suspended, tracing slow, absent patterns in the air as if you’re not even there to notice.
I know you are, though.
I can feel the weight of your attention—quiet, patient, almost reverent. And I give you nothing in return. No words, no acknowledgment, just the soft rhythm of movement and the calm, deliberate silence I choose to keep.
It isn’t careless. It’s intentional.
Because in that silence, you lean in closer. You listen harder. You search for meaning in the smallest motion, the faintest shift. And I let you—letting the quiet stretch just a little longer than expected, letting you sit with it, with me, with everything unspoken.
I don’t have to say a thing.
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Ignore Feet Call
