Permanent Loan

There is a rectangular ghost on the shelf,

a patch of wood that hasn't seen the sun.

I saw it on your nightstand in the photo,

the spine cracked, the theft finally done.

It was a book about grief and magic,

and I guess you needed both more than me.

But I still reach for that specific weight

when the room feels too wide and too free.

I wonder if you’ve even opened it,

or if it’s just a prop for your new life.

I’m left with the dust and the gap,

a dull, paper-thin kind of strife.