the dear old friends

it doesn't matter that

i've read

all those books

on the shelves,

or on the table,

or floor,

a stack of books on

the nightstand,

some in drawers.

i may never open

any of them again.

but let the dust

settle,

let the pages yellow

and the binders

go brittle.

leave them

where they are, 

my dear old

friends.

then carry me out

with them, 

at last,

in the end.