The Weight of Pages

The spine was broken, soft,

from too many openings,

a thousand thumbed-through pages

curled at the corners.

A book,

a world I once walked in.

Now, a dust-streaked shelf.

The air in this room

thick with undone tasks,

the hum of things

I should be doing.

Each word, a small stone,

too heavy to lift

just for the sake of it.

My fingers trace the blur of the title,

some adventure,

some impossible love.

It smells of old paper,

and rain that seeped in

years ago,

a story I can’t remember

how to find my way back to.