Your Books Are My Books
and i wish they weren’t
cigarette smoke
had seeped into the books on your shelves
long before you knew me
long before you loved me
long before I was here
now that I am here
and you are not
your books are my books
your books are in my house
i wish it didn’t matter
whose house they belonged to
and why
i wish they were our books again
together
as they once were
so i wouldn’t have to lower my nose
to their pages
to breathe you in
so i wouldn’t have to cry into my books
that were yours, once
and ruin them
and let my tears
wear down the pages
that you touched and loved
so i wouldn’t have to watch
as the paper goes soft
and gives away
pinched between my fingers
ripping without a sound
as i destroy the only things
you left me
besides the memories of you
that faded away
long ago
About the Creator
angela hepworth
Hello! I’m Angela and I love writing fiction—sometimes poetry if I’m feeling frisky. I delve into the dark, the sad, the silly, the sexy, and the stupid. Come check me out!
Comments (3)
I can feel the heartache in my bones. Beautifully written!
Gosh. This was a masterclass in how to explain grief. This was heartbreaking… and written do well.
Profoundly beautiful. I can relate.