Plastic access

Tucked in an old paperback, its spine cracked,

I found it, a thin rectangle of faded plastic.

My name, slightly blurred, but still intact,

the barcode sharp, almost prophetic

in its promise of order.

It felt like holding a key

to rooms I'd forgotten, a border

I hadn't crossed in years, silently

waiting. The library, a cool, quiet place

I always meant to go back to.

Still valid, it said. Still a space

for wanting, for books I would never get through.