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!
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- Runner-Up in In Eclipse Challenge
ECLIPSE OF HOPE, OF DREAMSRunner-Up in In Eclipse Challenge
e very time she looks up at the dark night sky of blacks and blues and specks of white—spots of glittering stars gleaming in the blackness—her heart always chills at the sight of the moon, dwelling high above her; whether it is
By angela hepworth2 months ago in Poets
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.