Fragile words are whispered from a book that lay open,
They are carried from the crumpled pages of you.
They comfort me all the ways they can,
And all the ways you can’t.
Their words’ are so much your own,
But unrecognizable to my ears.

Pictures play in front of me,
I reach out to touch them in my dire state of need.
A need for it to be real,
My shaking hands touch only the rough page.

I let my eyes scan the words on the book,
They are so beautiful,
Just as you were.

My breath comes in gasps,
I’m waiting for your smell to overwhelm me,
But I only smell your less potent memory.
It leaks from the stained pages of the book.

On the bed it lays where you should be,
Your false impression drips from its pages’,
And pours into me.

It all feels too good.
Though I’ll regret it later, I feed upon its warmth.
Slowly it becomes too much for me,
I slam the book close, and with its pages,
It takes a part of me.

Foolish of me to believe its mask,
Ignorant of me to bask in its familiarity,
I set aside the book on his side of the bed and fall asleep alone.