The Margins

The margins hold their breath— white fields where no hand writes, yet every word leans against them, anchored to emptiness.

A page is not the ink. It's the silence underneath, the air between letters, the spaces a reader inhabits.

I've grown fond of blank corners, the edges where stories dissolve into what remains unspoken, what glows brightest in its absence.

The margin is where I live now, where nothing needs translation, where light splits itself into infinite threads, all leading nowhere.