you can't find the book
you want to read.
you search the shelves.
the tables,
behind the couch, between
the cushions,
underneath. where could
it have gone.
perhaps angry at you
for being ignored
so long, it left.
it grew wings
and flew off. or maybe
you lent it out
to someone who now calls it
their own.
it's a sad to lose a friend,
a lover, but a book
unlike them, is rare to
turn up again.
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