Inkbound

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27

*Picture is my own*

we began as margins
empty spaces waiting for a hand
to spill ink into our quiet
you did not read me
you memorized the shape 
of my syntax
running a thumb 
along the rough cut of my edges
until the dust of old chapters cleared
revealing the spine
we are not written in a rush
we are the slow turn of heavy paper
the smell of old bindings 
and the afternoon sun
trapped between sheets of parchment

I have found myself folded down 
at the corner of your thoughts
a creased memory
you keep returning to in the dark
here in the white space 
between the paragraphs
where the author fell silent
we speak not in words 
but in the weight of punctuation
the soft exhale of a semicolon
the breathless pause 
before the next line begins
let the world close its heavy cover
let the shelves grow dark around us
we are pressed together 
in the quiet typography
two separate stories
bound into the very same breath


27 thoughts on “Inkbound”

  7. Jenn, this is breathtaking. There is such tenderness in the way you write about being truly seen—not skimmed, but understood down to the rough edges and quiet spaces. “You did not read me, you memorized the shape of my syntax,” was felt in my bones. Your poetry always reminds me that the most profound connections are often found in the pauses, the margins, and the unspoken things. Thank you for sharing another piece that feels both deeply personal and somehow universal. I loved every word.

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