There on the last page, of my favorite borrowed book
at the bottom of an index card, taped to the inside cover
and forgotten for the age of swiped, scanned, and moved along check-outs
your name is signed, no date, but the handwriting is the same.
Just to let me know you had it first, touched these pages
Fondled each letter with your eyes, know the ending
Read the sequel, and you didn't care for it much.
I don't know much about it except the smell of the paper
Who could read through all these tears?

A story forever lost on me, wherein I refused to see
It's so much easier to talk about myself as if I were you.