My heart is a library.
Not a large gaudy intricate room, with
Spiral stairs and frumpy armchairs;
It is more of a smallish nook
The walls covered in shelves of
The people I have loved,
and lost opportunities.
But you sit in the corner,
The only person I have ever let in-
the only one with a library card:
Temporary handling.
You can read the books, smell the bindings,
Flip the pages.
Maybe one day, there will be one written
Of you