Mourning Cursive - A Library At Midnight

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I found you in the hushed cathedral of old books,
where the air was heavy with the breath of centuries.
Dust motes drifted in the lantern light,
like tiny ghosts drawn to the scent of our sins.

You stood in the poetry aisle,
tracing the spine of some tattered Wilde
with fingers that belonged to an era that wasn’t this one.
Your lips moved as you read,
and I wondered which words you chose to keep for yourself,
and which you’d allow to escape into the air between us.

I lingered in the geography section,
pretending to study the maps of countries I’d never see,
while charting the slow cartography of your every gesture.

Outside, rain whispered against the tall windows,
and somewhere deep in the belly of the building,
a clock began to toll the hour.
You didn’t flinch,
but I felt each chime like a nail sealing the coffin of our solitude.

When I finally approached,
my voice betrayed me —
too soft, like the crumbling paper of the volumes around us.
You looked up,
your eyes rimmed in shadow,
and I saw the whole weight of your midnight kept there.

We spoke of nothing —
nothing worth remembering.
But your gaze was a bookmark
slipped into the story I’d been writing in secret.

I followed you through the maze of stacks,
my footsteps careful,
as if the floorboards might rat me out to the ghosts that owned this place.
The smell of you was rain,
and smoke,
and the faint metallic taste of a secret not yet confessed.

We stopped in front of a glass case
where some first edition lay embalmed in its own importance.
You stared at it like it was a mirror,
and I watched the reflection —
how your face blurred in the wavering lantern flame.

I wanted to reach for you,
but the moment was brittle,
and I was afraid my hands might shatter it.

Then, without warning, you turned,
your coat flaring like the shadow of some dark-winged bird,
and you left me among the books and the ghosts.

The door closed behind you with the sound of finality.
The rain carried on.
The clock wound forward.

And I stood there alone,
a library at midnight,
haunted by the thought
that some stories aren’t meant to be read twice.

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I found you in the hushed cathedral of old books, where the air was heavy with the breath of centuries. Dust motes drifted in the lantern light, like tiny ghosts drawn to the scent of our sins. You stood in the poetry aisle, tracing the spine of some tattered Wilde with fingers that belonged to an era that wasn’t this one. Your lips moved as you read, and I wondered which words you chose to keep for yourself, and which you’d allow to escape into the air between us. I lingered in the geography section, pretending to study the maps of countries I’d never see, while charting the slow cartography of your every gesture. Outside, rain whispered against the tall windows, and somewhere deep in the belly of the building, a clock began to toll the hour. You didn’t flinch, but I felt each chime like a nail sealing the coffin of our solitude. When I finally approached, my voice betrayed me — too soft, like the crumbling paper of the volumes around us. You looked up, your eyes rimmed in shadow, and I saw the whole weight of your midnight kept there. We spoke of nothing — nothing worth remembering. But your gaze was a bookmark slipped into the story I’d been writing in secret. I followed you through the maze of stacks, my footsteps careful, as if the floorboards might rat me out to the ghosts that owned this place. The smell of you was rain, and smoke, and the faint metallic taste of a secret not yet confessed. We stopped in front of a glass case where some first edition lay embalmed in its own importance. You stared at it like it was a mirror, and I watched the reflection — how your face blurred in the wavering lantern flame. I wanted to reach for you, but the moment was brittle, and I was afraid my hands might shatter it. Then, without warning, you turned, your coat flaring like the shadow of some dark-winged bird, and you left me among the books and the ghosts. The door closed behind you with the sound of finality. The rain carried on. The clock wound forward. And I stood there alone, a library at midnight, haunted by the thought that some stories aren’t meant to be read twice.

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