I felt it--
just a couple,
falling off of a shelf inside of you.
My eyes were closed,
my whole body was vibrating from you
and I felt the contours of your face in the darkness.
My hand has a memory that remembers
the softness of your skin
the strong bones underneath
the warmth of your face
the muscle contraction of contentedness and completeness.
My hand can't forget this memory--
it tingles sometimes and the moment itself floods forward
and I hear that little gasp again
when you felt the books fall.
And I remember how the next time--
my eyes closed again
my heart full again--
I felt you thrust into everything
and you put my hand back on your face--
and then nothing.
You locked me out.
And here I sit
reading One Hundred Years of Solitude
and dying one breath at a time
in this library with books all on their shelves.