Some words live best
in the weight of paper
and the scent of ink.
This piece remembers
the feel of writing
before the world went weightless.
I wrote when ink could smudge,
when paper drank each word like rain,
and margins bloomed with afterthoughts
in the tilt of a hurried hand.
Now letters glow in silent rows—
no scent of pulp, no weight of page—
only the pause of a waiting pen
and the arc of an unseen cloud.
Still I dream of the press’s breath,
of type that bites and leaves its mark,
of holding something warm and real
before the quill falls silent.
.