On shelves,

fading and yellowed,

hard corners curled like petals,

some permanently folded down,

thumbprints and scorch marks,

smudged stamps,

crossed-out names.

​

Move slowly,

speak softly.

​

Breathe carefully the smells,

old Marlboroughs and basements,

packing crates, diesel,

profligate bacteria,

the shifting scent of bruised.

​

Spines pinned,

parts lost

can sometimes be found,

mended,

comments read,

never erased.

​

Hold them.

They lived the stories they tell.