He says that I’ve too many books.
They won’t fit in our new house. Who still has paper
in this day and age and must you keep all that you read?
The space between the diminishing man and me
grows massive while I attempt to read jumping titles
as music. Can’t you rent storage space somewhere?
I have emerged out of the books and the books
exist out of me, it starts to whimper inside me.
The man withdraws in the intervening time
that resembles our life. I increase steadily
and keep quiet about sometimes being books. The weight
of secrets slows down. He protects his face
against a flurry of books. They head straight for me
he says. Don’t take that personally.