The Story I No Longer Have
Who was the first?
To lay down those mismatched pages and that loosely kept cover of a book,
That I, can no longer recall the title too-
Who lost their eyes and left it to be watched by other’s hands?
I cannot recall
where it was last kept, as all I can think of is the first place I found it
A cover bound by uncertain wonder, like a glittering tapestry and the rich firm leather, found only in the off brown hue of the soil from Puerto Rico
The first few pages, smelled of burnt vanilla cloves and spiced rum
It’s edges battered and softly warn like crumpled paper
The erratic thoughts and messages left there between its creases and folds
Reminded me of a life I never had.
I suppose it was hidden there,
Left only for me to find as if I had the map to its unknown.
Was it in that room?
A tile hung above the door, a door that was two hundred and seven rooms too far from the first instance I found it.
It has traveled with me beyond that small room, to a world much larger than we had known.
I lost so many nights reading those pages
Jotting down notes and thoughts against its margins
I imagined so many things within its stories
Did you read any of them?
Stories that melded nights and days, characters and adventures.
Yet all of them, these stories, unique in the way they would hold my memory.
Soft stains of coffee still mark the pages I loved the most, where fingers lingered upon the edges of each leaflet, as if to be caressing the love straight from the sentences that carried it.
I still feel the skin of each page as it would move beneath my hands,
And the soft smell of daisies that were left there to mark some of the chapters.
I feel, I remember the last pages, as my hands lingered there for a while longer. The remnants of a book unfinished.
I still go to the places where I had last read it, I still see the vivid images wash over my eyes like the dazed surreal-ness of a starry night. I would lay in the same bed, or walk along the quiet streets of celebration,
The air seems fresher there, as if life once walked those same streets.
But I can no longer recall where I last left something so precious and pure, as if the lasting memories were just a dream.
As if the pages were never cut from their trees. I still feel the feeling; that long walk between the rows of messages written there. I still hear them, the characters that were involved,
And I think back on the notes I had made of them. I suppose others will find it, they too shall leave their marks upon the already worn pages, but they too will know the marks I have left there.
They too shall see who else has read those lines,
I only hope that they find the lost meanings in the pages still left to be written, as they care for what is now lost to me.