Between volumes and syllables.
From a piece of paper
Folded with smitten hands and
Hidden between

Books of lesser interest to a
Young heart in first love,
To the isles and isles of scrolled
Knowledge lost in the blasphemous

Fires of Alexandria, my story
Remains only for as long as I
Do. Punctuations and dreams
That will forever matter less to

Another than their own. My
Story is my doing. My being.
My loves and dislikes.
My failures and successes weigh

Exactly as little as names of
Kings and gods long forgotten,
When printed with other drops
Of the same ink as theirs.

I love my girlfriend's answer
To questions of an afterlife:
*"I hope it all ends when it ends.
I have been given enough.

Give my space to other souls.
All I am; all I have,  
I am comforted to think I only
Borrow."