I sit in your library and watch dust motes swirling, illuminated in rays
of light that stream from cloudy windows, blocked-off windows, daylight
filtered through stacks of books and the debris of years.
These pages crumble when touched. Turned brittle, sensitive.

I hold my skin and feel fragility. The presence of another person damages
my spirit like a harsh touch to old parchment and cracked glue spines. I wish
I could sink into malleability, a forgetful and beautiful swamp of impressions,
and dissolve my past away.

I see you in the space between the aisles. The ends of your hair disappear behind
a corner too fast for me to see, but I sense that moment of motion and catalog it
quietly. I see fingerprints left on books no-one has touched in years.
Your favorite collection, recently read.

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