Library of Falling Stars

In the night-wing of the library, a telescope hums, its throat of brass warmed by paper breath. Dust floats like slow snow, each speck a small planet that has forgotten its orbit.

I tilt the lens and the shelves become a shoreline, book spines a dark tide, names eroding into hush. Somewhere a clock clears its throat, and time steps lightly on the carpet.

Stars arrive as if through a keyhole, thin silver needles threading the pages. A borrowed light, a quiet loan, settles on my hands like ash.

I close the scope; the room keeps shining. Outside, the city wears its circuits and rain. Inside, the silence folds itself into a map and I follow it home.