My soul doesn’t live in the body
you think it should.
It lingers
between the ink on pages
not in the letters themselves,
but in the spaces they leave behind.
I exist in the weight
of a pause,
in the hesitation before a sentence ends,
in the breath you didn’t know you held
while reading.
No blood runs through this—
only the slow current
of meaning.
Of memory.
Of a voice trying to find shape
through symbols
pressed into pulp.
I do not speak aloud.
But you hear me
when the words stay with you
after the book is closed.
This is where I live—
folded between lines,
aching quietly
to be understood,
yet content
just to be found.
Aug 7, 2025
Aug 7, 2025 at 7:03 PM UTC
My soul doesn’t live in the body
you think it should.
It lingers
between the ink on pages
not in the letters themselves,
but in the spaces they leave behind.
I exist in the weight
of a pause,
in the hesitation before a sentence ends,
in the breath you didn’t know you held
while reading.
No blood runs through this—
only the slow current
of meaning.
Of memory.
Of a voice trying to find shape
through symbols
pressed into pulp.
I do not speak aloud.
But you hear me
when the words stay with you
after the book is closed.
This is where I live—
folded between lines,
aching quietly
to be understood,
yet content
just to be found.