I’ve always been more
interested in the spaces between the words—
the slight curve of a sentence
as it dips into silence,
the half-formed thought that lingers
like something you can’t quite name.
This book sits open.
It is the kind that doesn’t belong to anyone.
It had passed through too many hands
to be tied to one story.
The words inside
were faded, unfinished,
like dreams we only remember
in fragments—
loud in their silence.
The stories didn’t ask for anything—
they just waited,
sitting heavy in the silence,
offering no more than the space between their sentences,
no more than the rustling of words,
the sound of a life
passing through.
Somewhere in that book,
in all those untold stories,
were pieces of me—
the parts I’ve lost,
the things I’ve never said,
the books I’ve borrowed
and never returned.
