It smells of leather and dust
and its pages give me glimpses
of thoughts left behind,
Quiet intruder,
my thoughts reading these thoughts,
chemical pronunciation filtered
through an inaudible span,
smells like an old world
pressed between books,
cedar and images of fish
with their aluminum scales
spreading over like flowers,
we are plucked from the shelf,
our lives written in light
and our presence unknown
until with new hands,
we are picked up,
our names made similar
and our secrets
made of ink.
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