You walk through the doors of the library and everything is in it's familiar place on every dust covered shelf. Somehow the feeling of it's untouched surfaces intrigue you (probably because you envy the hidden finger prints).

You open the first book and it breathes a hard nastolgia into your face. The sound of the porch swing is the first thing you hear, and the library is transformed into a summer's night. You feel the rush of your lover's touch and you wonder how it is possible to ever move on from that night and from the sounds of "I love you," in your ear.

The next book you pick up has a strong spine and thick pages. Everyone knows this must mean it lacks a good story but you wonder why that is so. Simply because it has been untouched? You long to be the unbent book on that splintered shelf with no crumbled pages or folded corners of someone's favorite things.

You refused to open the next book you saw, and yes, you judged it by the cover.  I suppose he judged you by the cover, and you could feel the weight of "you're not what I thought you were." It lives over your shoulders like an angry cloud and you hope to God there is a window to bring sunshine into this room.

Looking down the row of books you see one out of place, different from the rest.  With a gentle hand you pick it up and feel it's weak pages between your fingers stained with tears. You know that this book has been in the possession of many and even has a few tears the further into it you read. You wonder if this is how you appear. (fragile and weak) or if maybe the bold print you see on every page speaks louder than the condition each corner is in.

The next book you find is a childhood memory, and it was always one you'd love to relive.
You missed the sound of your father's voice, but the memory was as good as the father who knew how to leave. The baggage may have been heavier than his own suitcases, but you forget that all because you were back at your eighth birthday party, and the smile he had was one you'd never forget.

You close this book lightly and grab the one directly behind it. It's a fairytale, and the exact way you always imagined your life to be. Your eyes scan every page quickly but as you near the end you read that walks in the park are not always perfect in fact they can often be filled with tears and the little girl in a dress is broken inside scratching her story into every page of this fictional disillusion.

The last book you grab is one that shouldn't have intrigued you. You sit on the only piece of furniture, besides the dusty shelves; a wooden chair infront of a fireplace. The story displays you and him, and the future you wish you had.
The book starts out at a wedding, but it isn't yours. In fact, the only thing sentemental about it is the way he squeezed your hand when they said their vows.  You scream to make the story stop, but your eyes never stray.  The book ends with you alone. Ironic, isn't it? Because you were always alone, even when he was yours and everything felt complete. The wooden chair breaks as you move to burn the book, and the flames help bring the story to life and every lie fills the walls. The library becomes a labrinth that will never release you.

The chair is a mirror to your heart.

You are alone with the writing on the walls and that is all that is left of you.