There is a librarian who

organizes fluttering

memories.

The birds fly in with ebony words smeared on

their wings and they always

soar with more

questions than answers;

her thoughts are dust-covered dancers

twirling behind

crumbling books locked

in skyscraper-shelves;

she told me to look

for your book

yesterday and I peeled it open and there were

too many blank spaces between unfinished words;

question marks licked each page

and each page crinkled at my touch

and my touch left nothing but an indent (between the words “loss” and “love”)

and love was felt with your entire being

but being sick left you torn at the binding;

 

I took

your book

and slammed it against the table—

I watched the pages flutter

like feathers

and then I left

the remains to the

librarian.

 

Written by Hannah Butcher
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