The Book (Poetry)

The book of love is on the top shelf — high
above eye level —
your name mentioned somewhere on
almost every page —
a reference — a credit or a quote
that crept in as I wrote accounts
of loss — the margin’s raw
with notes on rage.

It remains my book at bedtime —
a great tome of reminiscences and grief
I re-edit every night —
perspective shifting on the loves
that still rule my life
long after they are gone.

There are chapters before and after
you came along —
pale passages by comparison —
unmemorable for the most part
but they give context —
something to measure passion by...

And the aftermath is words —
added, altered, substituted — never
telling everything there is to say —
the book grows longer in the telling —
love won’t be contained —
spills forever fresh upon the page —
your name its constant poem.