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a jarring silence
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commentary
We turn the lamps low, as if
light itself might disturb the bindings.
Dust moves in slow constellations between us.
The table is a tide of open spines,
each one breathing its own weather.
A pressed leaf waits in the gutter of a page—
its veins still holding the map
of a forest we never walked.
Ink ghosts rise where someone once underlined
a sentence they could not bear to forget.
We read until the air feels written on.
Until the silence has its own grammar.
.
