The Breath of Old Paper

Fingers brush yellowed pages thin,

smudged margins whisper where dust has been.

A scent like mildew, faint leather jacket,

smells trapped in time, a musty bracket.

Old book opened, memory bled,

faces and places long since fled.

A smell that tugs at edges frayed,

something alive in paper’s shade.

I hold the past, the dust, the ache,

the breath of old things that never break.