For the ones who are mysterious Your voice smells like old books and rain. A soft, papered echo of long-lost refrains. A pressed wildflower tucked between yellowing pages A secret left sleeping for history’s stages. A spine cracked by the weight of a thousand midnights. A flickering candle that burns through the coldest of slights Coffee rings marking time on a hand-me-down desk. A soft, weary shadow where the light used to rest. The storm slows its pulse to a rhythmic, dull thrum, While the pages grow heavy with all we've become. No longer a ghost or a story apart, Just the scent of the rain in the ink of your heart.
For those before our time and never told us of what they were
