finding love between rows of books that will never be read

all of these skeletons on the shelves;

their authors dead and long silent,

each book spine rotting rigid.

the anatomy of all their yearnings

are yet another testament to our eventual

decomposition. that down to our souls

we are all just barren, blanched, naked

rhythms. we long for what has been

longed for and say what has been said

by millions of unmoving mouths. but you—

 

among the dead, thumbs brushing upon

the impressions of each name like tides

unabasing upon every shore, you in your

perfect gentleness may at once render death

inabsolute. for at this moment, i would gladly

and beautifully disappear from this earth

if i could be a part of your story; a verse

that rests on your lips, or simply a book

among the leatherbound cemetery

that you look upon in the quiet of an afternoon, before

 

passing on.

 

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