I remember, though just faintly,
the afternoon you gave me
this book to read—saying
I would enjoy it. For months
it would remain untouched,
buried in all my hollows.

I found it again, later, as I
excavated all your small pieces
still left. Opening the soft cover
I found a page—marked
just so I would see.

Sketches of your handwriting
startled me. Studying it carefully
I could even notice
where the ball of your pen had
scratched the paper.