I look at my bookcase and see my ex-lovers, lined up.
They haven’t been touched in months; some, years.
Stiff and neglected.
I hesitate to press open the pages and hear that crack the binding makes.
That means I have to commit.
The more time that passes, the easier it is to walk by without guilt.
It’s like I never knew them.
Inside of my heart, amidst the clutter of other small tragedies, lies the reality that I am no longer the generous lover of collected words.
I am the girl with a shelf of skeletons who remind her of her failure to follow through.