Palimpsest

The old door holds a thousand names, carved deep then weathered thin, each letter ghosting into wood grain— a language time is learning to forget.

Ink bleeds through the page like watercolor into canvas, and what was meant to last becomes the beautiful smudge of everything we've already said.

I find your handwriting in margins, the pressure of your pen still faint on paper you thought you'd thrown away. Some things leave impressions that survive their erasure.

Light slides across wet stone, erasing shadows only to redraw them, building cities of illumination that collapse with each passing cloud. Nothing stays. Everything returns.

We write ourselves over daily— new words covering yesterday's ink, but somewhere underneath, faint as a star behind atmosphere, the original light still burns.