I have been looking at old books of mine. Favorites. High tides. Ones that rose the sun for me, framed the moon.
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Happenstance. Self-Help. Pieces of Hopscotch, of Written on the Body.
Not reading them. Just, holding them, inhaling them. Leafing through pages like they were dried flowers. Delicately, with respect.
Because they were alive once.