Library Cold

Rain lashed down, a sudden sheet.

I ducked into the library, feet

still damp. The big oak doors,

heavy, swung shut behind me, floors

of polished stone, a hush.

And then that chill, a sudden rush

of air, ancient and still,

raising goosebumps on my skin, a thrill

of something almost holy.

It's the same cold, isn't it?

That damp, quiet bite,

the air thin and waiting,

like something important

just left, or hasn't quite arrived.

The hum of the fluorescents,

a muted drone.

Dust motes in the weak light.

A quiet place for quiet things.

Where words sit, waiting to be read,

and breath hangs visible,

like a thought unsaid.