Check out all the books on the shelves
and remember me to your mother.
Or sell a few back cheap to some
spindly haughty clerk at the shop.
He might remind you of me when we
first slid books to each other
and our fingers kissed. If you find yourself
in tall stacks, hiding,
spend a moment to remember my lips on your stomach
and how our hot breath mixed
when we read aloud. Under the covers.
When you cross bars, carry your knife,
for ****'s sake. Go on snapping
mussels and water flows, the particles
that clog our veins;
and, publish a thing or two,
so I can know you're alive,
while I fester my own wounds.
If you cut your hair, keep it
blonde and I'll know you read this.
Or dye it black and I'll stop writing
to you on snowy days, prefer to walk
between the aspens and sleep forever
under the stars. Smell the pages of your armchair
fiction and make a mental note to clean your sheets.
The world is filled up with writers, and lovers.
Shove the new release pile over,
label it "read later" and get back
into the shop to find another
volume louder and more raucus than mine.
And throw your journals into boxes,
ship 'em to your cousins'.
When we're gray, you can think
back to pool cues and pillow talk.
And I'll cry when you bin me again.