There exists a book
that withholds to be opened twice.
Its pages are not made of paper
but of hesitation cooled into form,
and its binding is stitched
with something resembling quiet.
I have seen it only when the light goes astray —
when lamps grow theatrical
and corners become too honest.
Words appear, then reconsider themselves,
leaving behind the imprint of meaning
without the inconvenience of certainty.
Ink here does not dry;
it dawdles like a well-mannered secret,
refusing to smudge,
declining to leave.
Sometimes the pages turn on their own,
though no hands are present
to take credit.
And in the margins,
where explanations might have lived,
there are only delicate indentations
of what thought might look like
if it learned to behave.
The book is never finished.
It prefers suspense to conclusion,
and silence to interpretation—
a very respectable form of captivation.
How it survives
without ever being read
is not a mystery,
but a habit it resists to break.
It learns the shape of waiting
so well
that even time holds back;
to disturb it.
And when someone finally dares
to name its contents,
the letters step aside
politely
as if they were never meant
to be seen at all.
So the book remains
what it always was:
a place where meaning goes
when it decides
not to arrive.
It was in a paper mausoleum
Or in a ruin of notebooks?
Ash gray;
Buried in dust,
All that was to fade
Or to remain dormant.
There was something tragic about its unused pages,
The dog eared corners, and candlewax stains.
Comments (0)
See all