*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
The Creative Chic 