#UnopenedPages #Writecoapp
I sit here, clothed in silence,
spines cracked by time’s indifferent hands,
my pages yellowed, a testament to the sun that never reaches me.
Dust, like a shroud, settles thick upon my skin—
each particle a memory of the breath that no longer stirs my words.

I was born of thought, shaped by ink and yearning,
written to stir souls, to question, to ache,
but now I am still, forgotten,
a relic of someone else's wonder,
a dream half-formed and left to fade.

Does knowledge die in darkness?
Or does it wait, like me, for eyes that know how to see?
For fingers that will trace my lines and find themselves,
not in me, but in the spaces between what I say and what I don’t.

I remember the days of being held,
when each page turned like the slow unfolding of a mind.
I spoke once—
I was not silent then.
I was a bridge, a flame, a mirror to those who dared to look.
Now, I am nothing more than forgotten breath.

Yet, in this stillness, I wonder—
is it not the waiting that defines me?
To be untouched, yet complete,
to remain unread, yet whole.
Perhaps I am more than a story waiting to be told.
Perhaps the yearning is the story,
the silence, the truth.

But still,
I long for the warmth of a hand,
for the spark of a mind seeking the answers
hidden within my worn-out lines.
I long for the world I once knew,
where I was alive in someone’s thoughts,
where I mattered.

© Sachan