Paperback Lung

My eyes are tired of the blue-lit glare,

of scrolling through glass and wanting for air.

So I bought this block of sawdust and ink

to find a place where I don’t have to blink.

I cracked the spine at the station today,

and the chemical tang wouldn’t go away.

It’s the smell of fresh glue and a paper mill,

a sharp, bitter scent that makes the world still.

It hits the throat like a cold winter draft,

a industrial forest, a wood-pulp craft.

I’m breathing in stories that haven't been told,

before the white pages turn yellow and old.