epitaph

you write me into life,
but no one reads anymore,
except death unto me
we don't know the hurt
before the lines are cut,
from across the heart,
when how we used to feel
perfectly sets with the light,
with the spine of feelings
now all we do stays unopened
at the fold sealed with blue,
the wax of goodbye stains
the spaces on the shelves
papers are torn at the root,
the ink fails to burn,
ashen at the wake of ghosts