I dreamed I had a library book. It was
old and leather-bound. The pages
were thick, maybe vellum, and
it was beautiful.
When I opened it, the pages
were full of holes. All the beautiful lettering
pocked and obscured. The gold edges
In my sleep, I was annoyed
I wouldn’t get to read the book.
It made me sad. Who would destroy something
Dreams fade; this one didn’t. Hours after
going back to sleep, getting up,
having breakfast and doing chores and
writing some, I still see the book the
holes, the ruin. I still feel annoyed, and sad
so clearly, I clicked out of my manuscript to
write it out here. Maybe get it
out of my head.
He’s gone nearly four years. My beautiful book.
His story full of holes, unreadable,