I trace the cover of tomes I tuck behind the bookcases, drawing lines of dust from those pages I am frightened to reread.
The corner of my eye has grown accustomed to this habit, this involuntary shock of the past;
It is the comfort of secrets I keep from myself, it is the illusion of ignorance that keeps my feet planted to the ground.

There is a library somewhere I have always longed to lock myself in, dappled sun might wash my face in such a place -
It is the haze of this...