Library of Unfinished Tales

I sink my fingertips within
deep recesses of vellum
seeking that semblance
of holding another (you)
Tempted by that ink
I so lovingly pressed
into those unfinished pages,
dogearred and secreted away,
Those tender memories I should
(I really should)
relinquish

Yet I have not the heart
I'd burn it (perhaps)
if I could
But instead
it has burnt, branded
me irreparably
an afterimage
a phantom
that wounds my
idle thoughts
without you.

So I file away who we
were//could//have been
in my library of
malrequited love
ever weighing upon me
as only unfinished books do
Unable to rid myself this burden,
for without this pain (regret)
Where would I find that
vile ichor, that lachrymos ink
to carry on this
sisyphean pen
ever filling
my library with
a disquieting scent of
crumbling parchment, spilt ink,
and the heaviness of words
with no one to hear them.

Reviews

[Delmar Cooper]

Oh my, you place the nib right into the universal heart of the writer universe. I admire (translation: covet) your use of the language, although that is only incidentally great when taken from the greatness of the whole. " vile ichor, that lachrymos ink" is daring and I think "malrequited" is your neologism of the day , bravo.
In sum, thanks. Great piece of work.

[Nusquam Esse]

Thanks for taking the time to read my stuff; considering my low profile, it is surprising to still have visitors. I was in the middle of moving for a new job, and this piece just started running through my head, I was passing through a small town, and pulled over for a few minutes to scribble it out of my mind. Later, when I was reviewing it, I was shocked that malrequited wasn't a word... it should be... and honestly it fit, so I didn't settle for a 'real word' because malrequited love cuts with intimate intent.