The Unread Spine

It’s just there,

a weight on the shelf,

another story

not for myself.

The cover, familiar green,

feels like a stranger now.

Its stiff back, a clean

line I don’t know how

to break. The pages

still white, untouched,

holding silent stages

of lives I once clutched.

A film of dust,

a soft grey skin.

It’s not mistrust,

just nothing left within.

No hunger for the turning,

no pull to dive inside.

Just the quiet burning

of something gone, mislaid.