Scribble

Some books you keep for
the inscription, not for the book.

The spine on your shelf
reminds you of the moment
they gave you that present,
the feeling of something landing
when you opened it later that night.

I mean, Herman Wouk is not your thing.
Never became your thing.

But you can see the spine now, sometimes
open the book itself
and picture their hand floating over the page

scribbling an idea into words that
stick around, along with a book
you’ll most likely
never read.

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