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Dark steps lead upwards,
Upwards into a room so high I can see clouds gathered in the crossbeams.
It’s a library of sorts, except the Dewy Decimal System
Is really just my thoughts as they flow and it’s called art.
There’s something out of place though,
Much like you in my life.
There’s some velvet-bound, crisp paged book sitting on a high up shelf in the back left corner and.
It wasn’t there before.
It’s sitting among an infinite library of rags and scorched loose leaf paper with scribbles and coffee-stains all over them,
It’s sitting there, unaware of the FILTH she’s emerged in,
And I open her up, pure curiosity,
And I find my name written on every page
And I throw her to the floor in fright, unable to catch a single breath,
But as the cover falls down and the book closes,
The walls fall down and the clouds disperse and the staircase crumbles and the books burn
All the books, every last one
Excluding the book with me on her brain
Who kisses are like velvet and who saved me from endlessly categorizing dirt and excrement.