Finally Read

I finally read the book you bought, the birthday book, the book about the history of English prose rhythm. The one printed in 1912. I read the final chapter and Conclusion , leafing through appendices, hesitant to close the cover and return the book to its shelf.

Mind adrift, it meandered upon its course, calling to memory that day the book arrived. Stood in the hallway, we examined its sepia pages, each cut along its edge, throwback to a former age.

I smelt your perfume then; your musk. Felt the heat from off your face, pressed close to mine: Felt the pain in both ears from scrunching in the January freeze: Felt the loss of you taking the book away to wrap for the actual day.

Crashing back to terra firma, I saw my trepidation's cause. This book, and the intention to read it, was all that remained of what once was us. The last covenant, the final piece of unfinished business between us. Close the book and turn the corner.

I finally read the book you bought, the birthday book, the book about the history of English prose rhythm. It wasn't very good. Well, it was alright. Interesting, but nothing worth ending a friendship over.

So, I'm sorry, you'll just have to find a better one...