i was once his favorite,
not placed on a shelf
with the others of my kind,
crowded into space, their spines
tall, proud and straight
with a thin patina
of dust clinging along their top
raw edges.
no, i sat on a bedside
table within easy reach, cover
facing the ceiling, “leaves of grass”
dotted with notes.
and on many evenings he
opened me eagerly,
brown eyes skating
across several inked sheets,
his heart filled to bursting—
but now, yellowed with age,
there’s no one left
to turn the page.
