IX. The Stillness

Part of a poetry novella

The bookshelf leans, its quiet spine
Still echoing a hand once pressed.
Each volume soft with borrowed time,
Each margin scrawled, each meaning guessed.

The cup is cracked, the handle thin,
But holds its place beside the bed
Still warm with tea that might have been,
Still stained with all the things unsaid.

The lamplight hums a faded tune,
And casts the room in softened grace.
I breathe it in, but far too soon,
It slips beyond my reach of place.

I sit within this weathered hush,
Where even silence has been fed.
The beauty here does not grow loud
It lives, and leaves, and stays unsaid.