Picked from a high shelf; me, no stranger to quiet and dust. Examine my spine before you crack it. Part my pages to finger my words. Messages and meanings ravenously devoured— syllables and syntax, contentedly noshed. Happy to have something to hold; me, just happy to be held. Yet, no place was marked when you snapped me shut without warning or regard. Back to the shelf I went, unfinished and untold— into the familiar dust; me, never knowing just how I end.