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A recorded reading of “Soul Clearing with Ornate Hands”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
A librarian made of glass and dusk polishes the air between your thoughts. Their gloves are stitched with moth-silk; their cuffs—a baroque storm. They do not take anything from you. They return things to their rightful weight. A coil of dark slips loose— not a demon, not a drama— an old line you’ve carried. You set it down once on a windowsill, picked it up again at the door. The opal book holds its mouth open and the line goes in, obedient as thread. Somewhere, a bookmark ribbon slick with warm wax loops itself, patient and precise— elegance that doesn’t ask for applause, only continuation. When you leave, you aren’t “fixed”. You are less crowded, as if a room inside you has been swept and left empty on purpose— waiting, bright-floored, for what comes next.
Lyrics
A librarian made of glass and dusk Polishes the air between my thoughts Gloves stitched up in moth-silk Cuffs like a little baroque storm They don’t take anything from me They don’t make my pain a scene They return things to their rightful weight So I can breathe between A coil of dark slips loose Not a demon, not a drama Just an old line I kept carrying ’Cause nobody named the comma The opal book holds its mouth open And the line goes in like thread Like I’m learning that release is real And not something in my head You don’t take from me You return what’s mine You don’t fix me fast You give me time I leave a little less crowded Like a room swept clean on purpose Bright floor, open doorway Ready for what comes next Somewhere, a tentacle of gold-wax curls Into a clean spiral—soft and sure Elegance that doesn’t ask for applause Only continuation, only “more” When I leave, I’m not “fixed” I’m not a headline, not a cure I’m simply less crowded than before And that feels pure I stop wearing every sorrow Like it’s proof that I’m alive I set it down, I set it down And I still survive You don’t take from me You return what’s mine You don’t fix me fast You give me time I leave a little less crowded Like a room swept clean on purpose Bright floor, open doorway Ready for what comes next I won’t confuse my suffering with meaning I won’t build a home inside the ache If a room in me is empty on purpose That’s where the future gets to wake You don’t take from me You return what’s mine You don’t fix me fast You give me time I leave a little less crowded Like a room swept clean on purpose Bright floor, open doorway Ready for what comes next
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