The Book That Didn’t Come Home

I found it hidden in the gutter of my mind,

notes half-scrawled, ink bleeding into fading lines.

That book—worn spine cracked by hands

I never met, pages curling in cold rooms.

Years folded between the cover and the dust,

words pressed flat like secrets turned to ash.

No knocking at my door, no small return,

just the ghost of the weight it carried away.

I traced the outlines where your fingers pressed,

soft, worn edges softened by absence.

That book sits somewhere without me,

alive in neglect,

unread and stubborn,

a promise lost in the silence between us.