Member Poem

We turn the lamps low, as if light itself might disturb the bindings.
Dust moves in slow constellations between us.
The table is a tide of open spines,
each one breathing its own weather.

A pressed leaf waits in the gutter of a page—
its veins still holding the map of a forest we never walked.
Ink ghosts rise where someone once underlined
a sentence they could not bear to forget.

We read until the air feels written on.
Until the silence has its own grammar.