Love-Bound

I found her wedged between pages
88 and 89 of a Bob Dylan biography,
Mascara running down her face
By the tears left on the wrinkled skin of her desire.

You.

My you.

Or so I thought as I deliberately check
Text messages like clues at your arrival time
While simultaneously opening the
Paper prison of emotion, delicately
Using the tips of two fingers,
Lest my prints be caught unaware
Guilty of jealousy
Or maybe just guilty of envy
Over a woman who has the time to
Handwrite anything anymore.

No shorthanded grocery lists here.
No scribbled out reminders
Of dance practice or dry cleaning pick-ups
No, this was the calligraphy of
Shakespeare or Neruda
Love-bound and heartbroken
Offering everything for even a
Glance or a sigh in return.

I hastily devoured every morsel of her longing
Whispered alongside every word of withered wanting
Gently pressed my hand against the
Confession to feel her beating heart.
When had mine ceased to live in this relationship?

New tears splashed upon the
Watermarks of her devotion,
Tears of wonder and resign,
Mundane, yet longing for motive
Thirsting for l'amour
While dusting off the bookshelves
Of my predilection.

With a sigh and a swallow,
I returned the time-soiled note back to
Its home between pages 88 and 89,
Wondering when he last had time to read
And I last had the ardor to love him.