The Silence of Ink

The library breathes in slow, dusty gulps, Each spine a held breath, Leaning against the weight of a thousand suns Set in paper and glue.

Outside, the city is a frantic pulse, But here, the shadows are heavy with ink, And the smell of vanilla and old wood Cradles the light that filters through high glass.

A hand brushes a margin, A ghost of a reader long gone, Tracing the shape of a thought That still vibrates in the quiet.

We are all just marginalia, Pencil marks in a book we didn’t write, Waiting for a thumb to turn the page And let the air back into the room.