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There's a pile of them
On my bedside table,
Stacked up high. Covers ripping,
Crudely taped back together.
There are bookmarks
Scattered through them: pencils,tissue paper,
Post-its, gum wrappers, string,
And just one laminated piece of paper (slightly ripped), sporting my name.
Several are hidden in various places
About the room: tangled in sheets, shoved in the dresser,
Stacked or slid hastily under the bed,
Most surprising even me with their hiding places.
Other stuff in here, but it doesn't matter:
Clothes on the floor, desk a mess. There,
Laptop lights are always blinking,
Wires stretching everywhere, like snakes about your feet.
There's a bookshelf, stuck in the corner:
Impossible to really access. Nevertheless it is
Filled to the brim, until they spill out like water,
Trickling steadily through a dam.
There's one right now
In my hands,
Bent cover peeling. Pages
Often thumbed through: well-loved.