Ink Remembers

The paper holds what the hand once knew— each letter a door opening to a voice I've almost forgotten.

How the past lives in pressed flowers, in the shape of a name written in haste or ceremony.

I read your words like archaeologists read ash layers— each line a climate, a season of wanting.

Now the light comes through the window and makes the ink glow like it's alive, like it's still becoming what it meant to say.