Library

there’s something about

the towering shelves: the quiet atmosphere

the scratching

pencils, the sighs, the shuffling

of papers, of binders in backpacks

of the humming, gentle, from

the old air conditioner, sunlight

spills from open

windows

(you can tell things

about the people here

we all have lost

a puzzle piece

we spend eternity

looking for it again

look up, the old clock indicates

only a minute has passed)

i linger in the crooks and crannies

of this liminal space

the lighting is poor; it is not good

for my ruined eyes, my glasses

are proof of that, 

a stranger slides into the

chair on my right, a stranger

rises from across the

table

to leave, i nod at him, he nods

back, we have never

exchanged a single word

in this life, and perhaps after

i will never see him again, how odd

the person who i granted

three hours of my short existence

maybe he’ll die tomorrow, and

i’d be the last to exchange

a nod with him, and maybe i’ll

die tomorrow, and he’ll wonder

and maybe i should say something

like how the charm on

his backpack is from a

show i watched recently, but

for now i stay quiet

flip another page, his chair

scrapes lightly on the carpeted floor

the air hangs in suspenseful balance

the automatic door slides

open, that familiar whish and we all

flinch, as unfamiliar cold air

filters into this haven

into the illusion we crafted, to pretend

for another few hours, chasing

the sun around the globe, hoping

to forget there’s a world

out there, and that this

is the only place that exists.