The pages flickered like gossiping
lips, our heads resting sideways on
talking desks. The woman with her grey
nuclear cloud hairstyle shushed us
and I whispered to you;
'Who does she think we are,
Jews hiding beneath the floorboards?’.
You championed a guilty laugh
the covers of books slamming
up and down in chorus with you
and the librarian shot us dead with
a glare but I was certain that she couldn’t
hear us from there.
And we fell silent with our murdered
conversation dripping like torn up
diary entries from our absent fingertips and
I wish I knew what you were thinking
as I watched you in the spaces between
the lines. I wish I could read you like a
childhood book but I think that
maybe you were created to
never be read at all.