The bones of our ghosts live here.

Traveling through these library stacks

the bones of our ghosts live here.

I feel the remnants of our tired eyes dropping

as the librarian kicks us out at close again.

Academic dwellers,

our romance existed inside the dusty volumes of poetry

and word play.

Bookworms make for the busy sort,

the tired sort.

We often don’t know how to put down the book,

or page and pen to enjoy what’s

happening right in front of us.

I do not mourn these ghost relic memories,

but they stay with me as I pace from

shelf to shelf,

trying to shelve our

story among the others.

Trying to bury the words inside a thick

worn spine.

Maybe when this volume is littered with dust,

I can open up another one,

enjoy skimming a chapter or two,

look back with fond memories

instead of the usually tired response

of an over-analyzed piece of literature.