I sometimes stop reading books before I’m actually finished with them.
The plot is usually ruined by my impatience, and so instead of reading them, they sit on a shelf. A stack of characters awaiting my renewed interest in their stories.
Dusty and unmoved, unmoving.
I purchased them, full of hope for distraction. I liked the crisp, clean pages. Corners unfurled with covers unbent.
But where they were once full of questions to be answered, they're now only witness to my flighty nature. Pages of poetry lacking prose when interpreted by me.
Our epilogue, untouched.