And like the end of a torturous book,

you flipped through the lifeless pages once more,

closed it for the last time,

and put it back on the top shelf, third from the left.

You told yourself that by now,

after reading the same book for the hundredth time,

you’d have convinced yourself to forget the exact

placement of the book.

But you didn’t.

Top shelf, third from the left.

The repetition felt like a hallow thread;

the thin silk-like string of infinity

creeping along the crevices of your fingers

cutting through your skin, allowing the red to spill through.

This book of unrequited lovers crowds all your senses.

It toxifies the same blood in your veins that now is

spilling through the lines of your fingers.

Top shelf, third from the left.

You’ve positioned it correctly

but each word of each sentence of each chapter

is engraved in your head.

Like the lover himself.

And as you write the words with this red ink,

you wonder why only you seem to have the passion to read it.

Why not him?

Why not all the lovers that this book is dedicated to?

Because if they had even a fraction of desire to flip through

these pages as you do,

love would come spilling in and blessing every soul she touched.

And now you’re sitting here wondering why they

never want to hold it,

read it,

understand it.

Maybe it’s a language that their mind cannot comprehend.

Maybe each word is lost in translation.

Or

maybe they simply do not care enough.

Care enough to see a tortured soul

deprived of their love.

Now this “maybe”

is a hard pill to swallow.

Top shelf, third from the left.

I loved you,

but my love was just not enough.