The spine (my spine) is broken,an irreparable hinge
forged by being opened one too many times.
The ghost-fold in the paper remembers the movement without hands.
Pages are not torn ,not wavy from falling tears
For written without pulse
Sometimes Summer is shying away from the demands of the world
asking her to be warm and alluring
Tired of being golden
Because all she wants is to be a season
Stripped of heat and beauty
A room walled with paper bark stacks
Stories to keep the real outside
Words more than mere letter
Magic trapped in lines.
The sound of glass
May be a wine glass singing
May be a window shattering
May be bottle bursting
May be snow globe admitting that it can’t bear rut anymore
But then
The air remembers how to smell
Like lavender and rain and and everything we don’t know yet will happen but will happen anyway
And the book is begging me to stop reading
Daring me to go out and start breathing.
Apr 16
Apr 16, 2026 at 11:59 AM UTC
The spine (my spine) is broken,an irreparable hinge
forged by being opened one too many times.
The ghost-fold in the paper remembers the movement without hands.
Pages are not torn ,not wavy from falling tears
For written without pulse
Sometimes Summer is shying away from the demands of the world
asking her to be warm and alluring
Tired of being golden
Because all she wants is to be a season
Stripped of heat and beauty
A room walled with paper bark stacks
Stories to keep the real outside
Words more than mere letter
Magic trapped in lines.
The sound of glass
May be a wine glass singing
May be a window shattering
May be bottle bursting
May be snow globe admitting that it can’t bear rut anymore
But then
The air remembers how to smell
Like lavender and rain and and everything we don’t know yet will happen but will happen anyway
And the book is begging me to stop reading
Daring me to go out and start breathing.
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