image from Hope at pinterest.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Aisle-strayed, the spine-scuff welcomes: this scent, pine pulp and glue ghosts, settles dust-flurried lungs. Fingers graze jackets—crackled vellum, fresh gloss bleeding promise. Shelves stand like weathered priests holding confessionals of ink. One flayed paperback, dog-eared at page sixty-three's small triumph— proof someone else needed saving. Here, grief grows papercuts; hope wears library stamps. Every warped cover a hatch lifting into borrowed light.
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