There were some books in the hall,
I was told that they were yours,
And the thought crossed my mind
That, were you ever to haunt a thing instead of place,
It would be books-
Your books.
The smell of the old paper
Filled my nose.
It was like walking into a library.
A book of English drama
Lay in the stack-
Heavy and black.
Your name scrawled on the spine,
White against the dark.
It reminded me of you,
So I took it,
Raggedy spine and all.
And now it sits on my shelf,
To reassure me, much the way you did.
Of what I’m not sure,
Perhaps just for a sense of solidarity.
Books will always be there,
Living and breathing,
Even when their owners have gone.