The Quiet Archivist

I used to chase the sky for answers,
like peace was something I could win—
but the quiet archivist in me
slid out a chair: Sit. Let it begin.

No fireworks. No big reveal.
Just room-tone and a steady glow—
lamp glass filmed with my last breath,
a thumbprint I don’t bother to erase.

I file my fears like worn-out papers:
crease, date, margin-note, stain.
I lift them by the gentlest corner
so they don’t split again—
a tiny paper-cut memory of how
care can still hurt, and still be care.

—hinge-chime, hardly there—

I don’t chase the sky.
I become it:
blue reflected on the page,
a window-square laid quiet on the floor.

I don’t beg for love.
I let it come in
the way light comes in—
through whatever I leave unlatched.

Quiet hands. Steady pages.
I’m learning how to stay:
tongue resting behind my teeth,
jaw released one notch,
breath finding its own pace
in the room I keep.

Some nights the old cords twitch,
trying to tug me back to doubt.
I don’t yank. I don’t argue.
I speak to them like children—
soft voice, no shouting out:

You’re here.
You’re safe.
Loosen.

And the library stays open—
not demanding, not severe—
just making room for every chapter,
even the ones I couldn’t bear.

I slide the “should” into its folder.
I label the “what if” and shelve it.
Card tabs neat as little flags,
each one a place to set a weight down.

I slip one page into an acid-free sleeve—
the one that still smells like storm—
seal it with an accession stamp: KEEP,
ink-cool, square, precise.
The stamp-pad shuts with a soft kiss.

—page-turn: a soft stop—

I don’t chase the sky.
I become it:
lamp halo in the dust,
a slow blue settling in my ribs.

I don’t beg for love.
I let it come in.
Quiet hands. Steady pages.
I’m learning how to stay—
even when the drawer runner sticks,
even when a memory snags
and the paper wants to tear.

(spoken vow)

I promise: no more living like a locked door.
No more turning every feeling into why.
I’ll keep my heart on open shelves—
and let the lamp do what it does.

—final lift, smaller than a shout—

I don’t chase the sky.
I become it:
a room of air,
a window-square of light
that doesn’t ask to be earned.

I don’t beg for love.
I let it come in.
Quiet hands. Steady pages.
Either way—

the archivist closes the drawer
until it clicks,
and the room stays kind.