Pages in Dust

I dig through the attic’s dark,

fingers catch a spine,

a faded paperback buried

beneath years of quiet neglect.

Corners curled, pages yellowed,

a note folded inside,

words left unsaid, folded and pressed

between stories and silence.

The book waits, patient,

a ghost tethered to forgotten summers,

to conversations unopened,

to the slow, sinking weight

of time that took it back

without a word or return.

I hold it like a breath

never quite exhaled.