…of forgotten pages

There is a hush between us, like the quiet aisle of a used bookstore
where the lost souls of forgotten pages
remember being gently touched
dust motes are slowly rising and as I watch, my pulse slows
to match the endless creaking of the old wooden floor
long accustomed to ghosts, this is my vellichor
the scent of oft read books and the strange wistfulness of loss
the endless yearning for someone, that once knew how to read me
and you, were that someone, you could interpret my thoughts
from my unspoken words and whispered aloud to me
the well hidden footnotes, you dog-eared my silences
annotated my laughter, left fingerprints in my margins
but now I am wandering in the aisles of our memories
searching for a copy of us that hasn’t yet, been underlined
I pass over the other stories
their covers all cracked and their titles blurred
for none makes me feel the way, that you always made me feel
in a long, quiet, exhale of time the universe suddenly paused
between one chapter, and the next
and in that pause, I felt your ghost
thumbing through the wreckage of me
the way you once did, so long ago
always so softly and deliberately, as though you were afraid
you might finally reach the last page
© Ann Bagnall