The Missing Spine

The dust outline was still there,

where Blood Meridian used to stand.

Dust, clinging to the vacant air,

like the memory of a grasping hand.

I moved the books, one by one, to clean,

and there it was, the exact gap it left.

Mark borrowed it. Years ago, it's been.

A story, taken. A quiet, subtle theft.

It’s not the book, not really. It’s the way

some things just go, slip out of reach.

Like certain friends, who promise for a day

they'll bring it back. A silent, fading speech.

The space sits there, a hollow, empty beat.

A ghost of paper, making loss complete.