To All The Books I Never Read

 Dearly beloved,

I have more books than trophies sitting on my shelf, and these pages have been marked by the dust of time; no longer my fingertips or even a part of myself. I stare at the unburied coffin of stories in the corner of my room. When will I find time again between your pages, singing the prose of lost prose and lessons. There is a dead longing in my throat and breathless anguish in the absence of your words, I have turned into a crevice for your stories to make whole. And so, quietly, I swore.