The Rip

In the quiet of the library,

trying to find a book on clouds,

a kid ripped off his sneakers.

That sound.

Like a tiny animal

being flayed,

or cheap tape coming undone.

Fast, loud, unsatisfying.

I thought of you.

Of all the things we used to stick to.

Now it’s just this noise,

this tearing away.

And it’s not clean.

It’s rough, it leaves threads.

And you can’t put it back.