Picked from a high shelf; me,
no stranger to quiet and dust.
Examine my spine
before you crack it.
Part my pages to
finger my words.
Messages and meanings
ravenously devoured—
syllables and syntax,
contentedly noshed.
Happy to have something
to hold; me,
just happy to be held.
Yet, no place was marked
when you snapped me shut
without warning or regard.
Back to the shelf I went,
unfinished and untold—
into the familiar dust; me,
never knowing just
how I end.