I pull you off the shelf. No one has read you in awhile, let alone looked at you. Your spine is brittle, pages loose. I dust you off and put you on my night stand. I will read you tonight. I will read you soon.
I’ve fixed your bindings and made you shine. You’re ready to open up and let me in. I will see you tonight.
I return home from a day. I lay down with a glass of wine and you on my mind. I can’t wait to hear your stories, where you’re from, How you got here. My lamp brightens and I lift the book. The bulb blows and there is no light. I won’t be reading you tonight.
Life has picked me up and won’t let go. I reach out for you and It never happens. Another night, another defeat. I’ll see the sun before page one.
A month has gone by and I come home from the world. As I enter my bedroom, I take a saddened glance. The dust I’ve once removed has returned to your cover. In a useless action I remove the dust. Take a deep breathe. Place you back on the shelf.
The book I could never read…