Stack Dust

The automatic doors sighed open,

letting out that old book smell,

paper and dust,

a quiet kind of peace.

I walked the aisles,

fingers trailing spines,

titles I'd never read,

never would.

The hush here,

a balm.

Someone coughed,

a small, polite sound,

then nothing.

My sneakers squeaked

on the linoleum,

a sound too loud,

a disruption.

I just wanted to be

inside the quiet,

a ghost among the words,

not needing to be found.