My old books lie neglected on their shelf,
untouched for many years,
no one has removed the cobwebs,
When I flip through the moth-eaten pages,
the dust makes me cough,
and the summer humidity has dampened the covers,
but the passages I underlined have not faded,
the lines I quoted to you,
debated with you,
the thin strip of paper you once passed to me as a bookmark
flutters out,
and lands on the floor,
no one weaker than me could forget when
these books were still alive,
being passed between us,
and accompanying
our long evening conversations
and the times I studied by your side
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