Soongsoong - The Emptiness Between the Morning Air

🌬️Soongsoong(숭숭)

Up on the rooftop at 4 a.m.,
between sagging towels and sighing wires,
a hand rests on the railing—
thin with dew, like a pulse that’s left.

The sky isn’t a ceiling.
It’s a space that yawns.
It leans against the lungs
and fills them with unshaped air.

Steps don’t echo,
they pass through holes in time,
through cloth that forgot
how to be whole.
A drop of water lands
on the back of my hand—
and somehow it weighs nothing,
and somehow it fills everything.

There are no ghosts,
only the places they left behind.
So many.
So light.
Soongsoong.

🌬️Soongsoong(숭숭)

There’s something about rooftops before sunrise— they don't hold you, they let you float. I stood among half-dry towels, between clotheslines and sleep, where silence had soaked through everything like dew. The railing was cool and thin, as if the metal itself didn’t want to be touched too firmly. It reminded me of things that were once solid but now exist only in outline. I wasn’t thinking about anything, which is another way to say I was thinking about too much. The air up there wasn’t cold, exactly— it was just shaped like absence. It filled every part of me that used to be occupied by names, voices, intentions. I noticed how the sky didn’t end— how it wasn’t above me, but around me. That’s what Soongsoong feels like: not emptiness, but the awareness of space where something used to be. People often think grief is heavy. But sometimes, it’s not. Sometimes it slips through you, like wind through torn fabric, like light through an unfinished thought. And it leaves you not crushed, but open. Open in a way you didn’t ask for. Open like a rooftop waiting for nothing.