In French they call it the Past Historic

Dust collects between the pages
Of a book we abandoned long ago,
Yet the dust particles scatter, shuddering,
Each time I exhale.

The ink blots on its pages,
The doodled pictures and
Etched in observations
That remind me of a thousand needles
In my skin, yet also of a thousand blackbirds
In a morning April sky,
Still breathe in my brain.

This forbidden tome stares at me every day.
I am not allowed to touch it,
Yet I am still living amongst the musty leaves
Of its composition.

My spine rests against its spine,
And the two essential bones have mangled and knotted
Over the years,
So I cannot detach myself.

I'll get away from here
Eventually.