the bookcase holds my friends, my enemies,
the untouchables of my formative years
with last words that can bring on tears
from the brief introduction to the deep unknown

they no longer wait for me there
like ex-girlfriends that learned to move on
whether they are too broken or too strong
they hold their breath when i turn their pages

i sit down to write with a sad sort of smile
about the heartache i found on first losing meursault
and the few words that spill out reveal a pathetic flaw
in my self-indulgent philosophy-induced suffering