Her face still haunts, even though

the image is a girl just half my age.

There is a place my spirit still lingers.

A place that is beginning to fade

from existence. It is a land of dead things

where trees go after being chopped,

processed and preserved. It smells

of mild decay, old wood, dirt and filtered air.

For a time it was my sanctuary.

It was a place I could lock myself away

from the responsibilities of the everyday.

It was the place I saw her for the first time

and it was she that caused me to linger.

For days I would sit and read as Quixote

watching from afar until I could not stand it

and leave. In the end, I closed one last book,

walked the mahogany rows of Dewy Decimals

and left through the double doors.

I look back more often than I like to admit

and I still see her smiling as she wanders

the rows that hold a memory of trees.


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