Books

I felt it--

like books--

just a couple, 

maybe three--

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. 

Radio silence. 

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. 

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