Dust and Handwriting

The box split when I picked it up,

and the smell came out like a secret,

like dust and mold and the memory

of someone who used to sit

in a room and read books

and write angry things in margins.

Page forty-seven:

this is shit.

I remembered laughing,

remembered the way they'd mutter

their opinion into the pages

like the book could hear them,

like the words could fight back,

like their anger mattered.

The spine is broken

from being read too many times,

the kind of love that damages,

the kind of care that breaks.

And now they're gone,

and all that's left

is the dust,

is the faded ink,

is the proof that someone

was here,

was angry,

was real.

The smell fills the room,

and I let it,

because it's all I have,

it's all that's left,

it's the only way

to bring them back

for a moment,

for just this moment,

before the dust

settles again.