Hotel Books.

The books on this hotel's shelf lay dormant.
Their spines comforted by the thick layer of soot, eluded from fragmented memories that refused to flee.
But when resuscitated, they only expire dust.
Their skin covers crack with negligence.
Their words flutter from the empty pages as if they were butterflies, wallowing with the summer breeze.
They dance around my throat and clench my broken chest as I frantically fail to breathe. They tediously suffocate with all the love they accumulated, but failed to perpetuate.
Such tragedy.
For they only desired intimacy.
Not this confined calamity.