Texture

Your knowledge bends to my fingers.
Slightly rougher than skin,
I pore, trace with fingers
from each end of your spine.

You were relegated to the shelf
Of my mind for unknown years.
I forgot the joy you brought when in
My hands you lay.

But now, I remember stories you
Once told me as I desperately
Recollect what knowledge I had.

And to lie awake at night adrift
In shallow pools of my subconscious
Where Montag's duty is carried out

(And you, That lay in my hands,
That felt rougher than skin,
That I traced the spine of...)

You are ashes.






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Another poem i wrote. Constructive criticism welcome, i'm sure there are some english majors that think its rubbish xD.