the shelves are lined
with someone else’s odes
to a her
i have never seen
not imagined
in a way
that brings her smile to life
the twinkle of mirth in her eye
the soft emotion in her voice

the bookshelves in my mind
are a different tale
altogether
they sing with her laughter
exude her musk
each page carries
the softness of her skin
every word drips
with the taste of her lips

the authors on the shelf
may be famous
but they never
had a her
to rival the one
etched
into the masterpieces
that dance the musty halls
inside of my head