The bookcase is bare,
Devoid of the weight of
A thousand voices and
Words written by buried pens.

Their lives (my life) now
Packaged neatly in a cardboard box,
Stifled by corrugated darkness,
Pages suffocated and
Unable to breathe.

I wipe the dust from the empty shelf and
Feel, somewhere inside of me,
That I am brushing the evidence
Of my soul away.

My breath is trapped in
A cardboard box,
But one day I will
Breathe again.

Somehow, this emptiness
Makes it easier
To leave.