Late Fees

The radiator has been ticking all night,

a metal heartbeat in the cold of the hall.

I found your copy tucked just out of sight,

wedged where the floorboards meet the wall.

There’s your name in that ink you liked,

a green that’s faded to a bruised sort of grey.

The spine is cracked where the heat must have spiked,

or maybe from the weight of me turning away.

On page forty-two, there’s a coffee ring,

a dark, dried map of a Tuesday we shared.

It’s a heavy, small, and unreturnable thing,

a debt I forgot until I finally cared.