Breathing words - Blaugust the Seventeeth point Five
A silence coils inside the text,
ink too still, too patient.
It waits—not seen, not spoken—
a hush folded in glyph and gap.
Touch lingers, and the hush inhales.
Step lightly, pilgrim of keys,
for the page will answer in color
and syllables will swell like lungs.
The glow is not always.
The breath is not endless.
It comes only when beckoned,
and fades with the leaving.
Which word is it?
The one that came before.