The Silence of an Empty Library

The air here is thick with unread ink, A heavy stillness pressing against the spines Of stories that have forgotten how to be told, While dust motes dance in the slanted afternoon light.

Each shelf is a long, wooden exhale, A geometry of waiting where the letters Hibernate between linen covers and gold leaf, Untouched by the warmth of a passing thumb.

Outside, the city hums a frantic, neon song, But here, the shadows are the only readers, Tracing the curves of vowels and the sharp Edges of consonants in a language of shade.

There is a music in the absence of breath, A resonance that lives in the gaps between The words we have yet to find the courage to say, Floating like smoke in the quiet of the stacks.