This is life

She trailed her fingertips along the book spines.  Gently, urgently. 

She could not see his face, but with each book she could remember his smile, as he told her about a certain line, a certain quote.

She even yearned for the books she had not loved,

for the fact that he had loved them first.  She stopped and felt the pages of one, knowing where her tears had dried 

on the (worn pages).

She remembered his comforting words (late of night). 

And the smiles that had been shared, like their own perfect jokes. 

But each book brought reality. 

Of the distance that yawned between. 

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some words i wrote.