Mourning Cursive - Ephemera

The smell of books lingers like memory, ink bleeding through centuries, each page a cathedral where silence kneels, a prayer bound in mildew. Rain writes in cipher on glass, each droplet an undeciphered syllable I translate nothing, yet my margins darken with ghosts. The scent of rain, the taste of bitterness, Eyes blurred over typography all evidence of a life footnoted, never cited. A cup of coffee warms my hands, its black bitterness tracing the outline of my solitude. I drink, and the ghosts of authors drink with me, their voices spilling in forgotten dialects, I cradle it as though it were scripture, as though warmth could canonize silence. Old libraries breathe dust and reverence, rows of spines like gravestones I walk the aisles as one condemned, I read the names carved in leather, my reflection fading in gilt letters. The scent of rain, the taste of bitterness, Eyes blurred over typography all evidence of a life footnoted, never cited. In vintage bookstores, the world is smaller, scent of paper and rainwater colliding, each cover a confession, each chapter a wound. Here, I exist only in margins, scribbling elegies in the coffee stains, hoping the ink will dry before it blurs away. Darkness studies me, a failed thesis in flesh. I remain unwritten, a footnote in some scholar’s lost notebook, waiting for rain to blur me clean. The scent of rain, the taste of bitterness, Eyes blurred over typography all evidence of a life footnoted, never cited.