With each drop of ink fall, fading to indigo,
twilight’s measured rhythm unfurling.
On the night into a world of its own,
feeling each drop of oxygen.

Soft as the blooming fog, a secret,
with the dying light, memoirs of the quill.
Its spine cracks beneath the weight,
of every word unsaid, forged and forgotten.

Sheets curl away like fists unclenching,
whispering stories to the damp air.
The scent of old paper, warm whiskey,
and the slow collapse of embers—

These are the bones of what I couldn’t say,
and the inkwell—god, the inkwell—
Stares back like a pupil-less eye,
so I write, the paper eating quid…

The words whole.