Lost Margins

A note slips silently

from the pages like a secret.

Yellowed and brittle,

its edges curl with age.

The dust thickens around my hands,

a musty weight pressing

against the quiet hum of shelves.

Words fading beneath the fingers.

The note lies—forgotten script—

a margin lost in time,

cracked ink bleeding

into the grain of forgotten paper.

I hold the silence

where once a voice was caught,

waiting to be read

or left to crumble in still air.