Silent Archives

Within the hush of closing hours, dust settles on forgotten words— each mote a voice we didn't keep, each corner holding what we were.

Light bends through gaps in memory, shaping ghosts from everyday things: a coffee cup's elliptical ring, the crease where hands once folded pages.

We think we're moving forward, but the past accumulates in tendons, in the particular way we turn toward what we love, what hurt us.

The body is a museum of small decisions, each breath a re-cataloging, each moment both archive and dissolution— we are always becoming someone else, always carrying who we've been.