Unread

The spine makes a sound like a breaking twig

when I force the covers to stay apart.

The debt for this hardback is twice as big

as the actual hope I have in my heart.

It smells like a factory, sharp and clean,

of bleached-out pulp and a chemical glue.

It’s the freshest thing that I’ve ever seen

in a room where everything else is through.

I bury my face in the gutter of the page,

inhaling the scent of a story not told.

It’s a beautiful way to hide your age

and pretend that the world isn’t dusty and old.