Overdue

The shelf feels lighter now, a gap

where your particular copy sat.

I ran my fingers over dust,

a faint outline, a sense of loss.

That novel, spine cracked, pages worn,

a gift from when we were first born

into this friendship, bright and new.

I lent it out, it seems, to you.

And now it’s gone, a quiet theft,

of stories, and the bond we left

behind. The cover, faded blue,

I can’t recall who has it, who

I gave it to. It just went out,

and never found its way about.