Paper Near the Lamp

You scribbled notes and let them rest
Right where golden light is best
Not a letter, not a card
Just your thoughts in lines so hard
I don’t read them all the way
But your heart still finds its say
You don’t write to make a scene
But your truth slips in between
Paper near the lamp at night
Catches all your quiet light
Even in the smallest phrase
You unfold a hundred days
You don’t spell out every part
But I hear it from the start
There’s your soul beside the stand—
In the warmth of your own hand