It's the space I think not the words

It's the space, I think, not the words,

that makes it real, like ancient birds

singing from a hidden nest.

A dark box, putting truth to test.

Not a priest, or even a friend,

but that dim mesh, the unseen end

of a secret, spoken low.

Where stories go that can't quite show

in daylight, or in common air.

Just a breathing presence there.

The velvet drapes, absorbing sound,

the scent of old wood, dust on ground.

A quiet, grimy, holy space.

For things you can't erase.

But you can name them, one by one.

And when it's done, it's never done.