My soul doesn’t live in the body

you think it should.
It lingers 
between the ink on pages
not in the letters themselves,

but in the spaces they leave behind.
I exist in the weight
of a pause,

in the hesitation before a sentence ends,

in the breath you didn’t know you held
while reading.
No blood runs through this—
only the slow current
of meaning.

Of memory.

Of a voice trying to find shape
through symbols
pressed into pulp.
I do not speak aloud.

But you hear me 
when the words stay with you
 after the book is closed.
This is where I live—
folded between lines,

aching quietly

to be understood,
 yet content 
just to be found.