Three Years

Three years sitting on my shelf,

and my friend texted out of the blue:

"Did you finish it?" I know I should

have read it, but I never really could

get started, and now I'm here myself,

holding onto what isn't mine, what's due

back, what I promised I would return.

Her name's inside the cover, written in pen.

I see it every time I turn

to look at the spine and wonder when

I'll have the courage to admit

that I'm not the person I pretended to be,

that I took something and didn't quit

holding it, that borrowed became

something like theft, something like shame.

I could mail it back. I won't.