The Weight of Borrowing

In a book forgotten, I found a relic,

a library card, ink faded, nostalgic.

It whispers of afternoons, hushed and profound,

of pages that turned without making a sound.

Dust swirls around me, a blanket of time,

each letter I traced, a forgotten rhyme.

The comfort of silence, where worlds intertwine,

this card holds my secrets, a life so divine.