PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

We turn the lamps low, as if

light itself might disturb the bindings.
Dust moves in slow constellations between us.
The table is a tide of open spines,
each one breathing its own weather.

A pressed leaf waits in the gutter of a page—
its veins still holding the map

of a forest we never walked.
Ink ghosts rise where someone once underlined
a sentence they could not bear to forget.

We read until the air feels written on.
Until the silence has its own grammar.

.

The box in the attic never asked to be opened.
Its lid sagged with the patience of decades.
Inside: envelopes addressed but never sent,
each one a room you could almost walk into.

Some held a single word,
as if the rest of the sentence

had slipped out the back door.

Others were heavy with air,
creased where someone had

folded the silence in half.

I read them without unfolding.
Sometimes the shape of the paper

tells you more than the ink.

Bindings
Some bindings creak when opened,
as if they’ve been holding their breath for years.
Others part without sound,
trusting you to notice the loosened thread at the seam.

White Space
Between the paragraphs,
there’s a pause long enough to hear the paper think.
It remembers every hand that turned it,
every fingertip that hesitated before the next line.

For the One Who Will Answer
These pages are not finished until you speak them.
Until your voice folds into the ink,
and the ink folds back into you.
Only then will the echoes know where to rest.

.

Between Shelves

The air here is thick with the weight of almosts.
Books lean toward one another,
spines whispering the titles they wish they’d been given.

On the floor, a stack of drafts waits without complaint.
Some are missing their middles,
                            others their endings,
but all of them know the sound of a reader’s breath
when they’ve found the sentence worth keeping.

I walk the aisle slowly,
palming the dust as if it were a kind of currency.
Paying my way deeper into the silence.

.