The Invisible Path of Settled Air

In silent halls where volumes rest,
It is not just the wood that creaks softly,
Nor the faded ink that keeps stories deep,
But another essence that floats and drifts away,
Drawing ethereal patterns, almost unseen.

A tapestry of effluvia, barely perceived,
Of fingers that leafed through, of absent gazes,
Of vanished tobacco, of thoughts ineffable
Absorbed by time, between pages and silence.
The worn leather, the paper that drank tears.

The air itself an archive, of intangible scents,
Where every ancient breath finds its own space,
An echo without sound, among inextricable layers,
Of passing time that leaves no trace.
It is the hidden skin of places, a slow secret,
That in peaceful shadow finds its center.