The pages crumble in my fingers
And wither away to nothing.
The letters swirl off the page
And find some other soul to comfort.
The binding becomes unraveled
One stitch and glue string after another,
Melting down to nothing more
Than liquid sinking through the floor.
The covers themselves are eaten by the darkness,
The voracious darkness that never slumbers.
All I’m left with are my stark white hands
And a rectangular hole in my chest.