I caught a whisper in the corner of my room, A paper moth that folded into noon. It read like weather, like a sentence left undone, Traced the margins where the light had run. Every page you left became a map, I trace your ink and follow back the path. A quiet fever, gentle as a lie, I learned to breathe the words you never tried. You hum like fever in my quiet head, A gentle contagion I can’t shed. I keep your lines beneath my skin, Read them slow and let you in. You are the story I can’t unbend, A slow infection I learn to tend. Streetlamps write your name across the rain, Each syllable a window, each one a refrain. I fold the corners of the nights we never had, Press them to my chest until the edges go mad. The grammar of your absence shapes my hands, I press your commas into lines I understand. A patient ache that learns to wait, Turns the clock and rewrites fate. You hum like fever in my quiet head, A gentle contagion I can’t shed. I keep your lines beneath my skin, Read them slow and let you in. You are the story I can’t unbend, A slow infection I learn to tend. Pages flutter like small wings... Remember how they fall? I count the margins, count the ways you called. If love is literature, then I am bound and worn, A book with missing chapters, edges frayed and torn. You hum like fever in my quiet head, A gentle contagion I can’t shed. I keep your lines beneath my skin, Read them slow and let you in. You were the story I could not bend, A slow infection I have learned to tend. I close the cover but the pages hum... Your echo lives where silence comes. You are the virus... In my quiet head...
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