Unreturned

The nightstand was wobbling, driving me mad,

so I looked for a wedge in the junk that I had.

I pulled out a paperback, dusty and torn,

a relic of feelings that are weathered and worn.

I opened the cover and saw the first page.

'Property of David,' written in an age

when we shared a bed and a set of car keys.

Now it’s just paper that’s starting to wheeze.

There’s a ring from a coffee cup near the top,

and a story I started but had to just stop.