Page 47, Again

The spine is dusty,

a fine grit

like old skin.

Page 47,

the same page,

dog-eared,

a small scar

where I stopped.

My pencil marks

faint in the first few parts,

a promise of understanding,

now just

a faded line.

I pick it up,

the cover stiff,

a small weight.

I know the first chapter,

the second too.

But the air grows thin

around page 47.

A wall,

a quiet refusal.

The story

holds its breath,

waiting

for me to begin

again.