Ink and Edge

The notebook’s spine creaks soft,

cracked leather pressing into my palm.

Pages yellowed, curling upward—

a scent of dust and forgotten storms.

My pen scrawls heavy, teeth in paper,

edges ragged like the evening sky.

Words gather, stumble, chase the end,

a trembling language without Wi-Fi.

Last relic of a time before

screens glowed bright like wet wounds.

Here, my breath is inked in silence,

a ghost of hands that still move slow.

Holding this is holding the past,

last analog trace of a voice that lasts.