A haven for unloved words (and misty eyed adventurers)

It would be a quiet place
where dust beneath footsteps
would swirl glimpses of fantasies
into the waiting space
that brushed silence the same way
as fingers poised above a pianos keys

that is the sound of comfort
and in the half note hush between pieces
would be the creaking of leather couches
and the turning of pages
would be fingers
pressed to almost opened lips

a moment please
for the lonely flake of ash
that fled on the wind
from Alexandria's burning
to find a home amongst the dust
resting comfortably on the spines of books

but the wind still brings the smell of burning
no young lovers reading
of new worlds between the pages
with cold coffee resting
on a table almost big enough
and legs unwilling to untangle
and find a new patch of leather to warm

there is no comfort in silence yet
because a fear of failing
still feels softer on the lips
than admitting
that I was too afraid to try