I remember the smell
In the library,
The quilt squares
That covered the tall shelves,
Homes to old, aging pages;
The aroma of faded words,
Fresh and strong,
Like the nail polish remover
Used to steal away
The chipped, black polish,
That lied over my long fingernails.
The nail polish that had once
Matched the dress I wore at your funeral.
My only memories of you
Hide within the perfume
Of musty bindings.