at the bookstore the

at the bookstore the
other day, i get down to
my knees and find myself
eye-level to a shelf
of books that scream
you. i pull off
a few volumes, open
to chance pages,
always looking for a
message, a sign to
your disappearance.
in one is a man
lighting up a
cigarette, in
another is someone
cursing, and in
a third, a
blank page, waiting
for the right
moment that will
no longer come



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