Flipping through books read too long ago
to even remember the end
I find photographs of me in your arms
and sheet music to the songs
you sang me to sleep with.
I find a pair of earrings and a condom wrapper
slipping out of Chasing Brooklyn
and I see ebony lace ribbons tied to
our wristbands from the summer concert
where I noticed we were in love.
There always was something
about us and books-
something in the way we made out
in the library behind the stacks
and that time when we had midnight meetings
just so you'd read me poetry
between the dew painted grass
and stars filled with hope.
Flipping through books read too long ago
to even remember the end
I find that nothing the ink records means
a damn to me, now that we've rewritten
each and every page.
And you still have our books, don't you, Bloom?
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