I know you like the incomplete
expanse of my library of memories.
Like Great Gatsby's spine I nearly tore
in two because I found the ending unsatisfying,
or like any Poe story a delicious dark morsel
I find easy to consume.
You carved letters in my breast.
I collected and stored them,
each with their own page,
I still read each inscription.
You folded the page
to mark where we left off,
and I won't remove the marks.
Even if I unfolded each page,
the memories remain creased.
I know you,
and until the memory
of your haunting smile
fades with the collection of my library,
I will turn the page,
I will keep reading.