I woke up to a bed layered in scattered pages,
with an empty coffee mug at the foot
and your glasses perched, crooked, on the tip of your nose.
Fast asleep, you hold a thick gray book
with your thumb rested on a worn page.
45.
I cradle the book and stare at the printed lines
and I find a marked passage, something to do
with the suicide of a young girl.
Heavy underlines, arrows, stars,
every type of signal to label something
important.
Note number 12 is scrawled in black loops to the right,
and I scramble until I find it
crumpled in his left palm.
Don’t ever let that happen to her. She’s too nice.
7:15 AM, I fall asleep,
the happiest I’ve ever been.