The Librarian

For far too long have you sat behind the desk
painting pictures in my mind of a naked obelisk.
You’re a paperback intact, with a hard, hard cover,
I wouldn’t take you back, in fact, you’re a subpar lover.
I don’t mean to sound bitter, for you were true to the end,
but you left in a rush, and I had no chance to defend.
I was open and vulnerable, soft spoken and honorable,
yet you cut every tie like our love was all just pretend.
I hope your future is enough, since the present never was.
I hope the future tells the truth, since the present never does.
The pain of your memory can only inspire me so much,
after all you lied when you promised me we’d stay in touch.
I’m checking myself out now, for good with no late fees,
I’m taking my nightmares back despite your presence there lately.
Guide me to the door and I will see myself out,
I’ve had enough of enough with and without a doubt.
This is the last poem that I will ever write about you or your henna reds,
as far as I can be concerned the girl that I knew, Hanna, is dead.
What remains is just an outline, so avert your hazel eyes
and I am sure that in due time it will be you at last who cries.
You said you wanted to be a librarian; will you put my books upon your shelf?
I feel sorry, Hanna, in your choice to spend this lifetime by yourself.


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