Sits in a library in the afternoon.
I'm away, maybe even busy,
And he drags his fingers across
The spines of the book
Like he's playing a xylophone.
He smells the old wood
The pulpy cheese scent
Mixed with the bitter ink
The two fermenting each other
In their closeness for years
As he looks for the oldest book
He can find.
But he stops.
This may have never happened
I wouldn't know if it had.
I wasn't there.
When he presses his cheek on the
Linoleum table top
And traces an invisible pattern
That only he could imagine
As he falls asleep,
His temple fusing with the table.
I come back for a moment
In his darkness
Just to make sure he's still there.
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