Chair to chair:
"We hold whispers unseen, between movements too subtle to catch, "
as the air spins tales of presence,
Soundless echoes rest,
They flutter through waiting bodies, dissolving into planes of thought,
"The waiting is gravity's companion," one chair reflects, quiet in stillness.
Time waits within our clutch,
securing the empty, bold space with promises untold,
where silence becomes a symphony of suspended potential.
Do we speak dreams,
or hold invisible a story without chairs at all?