When there is no one else in the library
except the old librarian who doesn't listen anymore
I would like to ask you,
"Did I love you?"
But with your heavy books
on top of mine I cannot say
anything
except maybe ask you the time.
And then maybe you or I would
take those heavy books,
shove them into our already heavy backpacks
and leave.
What I want to ask you is to
stay.
Don't come and don't
leave.
Please
erase away this note, this beat, this
song, so I won't have to sing again.
But you're not supposed to talk
in the library, and there are people who always listen
so I cannot ask you to stay.
So you and I come back and back
into the heaviness, the bookishness
we go--to forgo time,
for I cannot forgo
you.
What I want to ask you is to
stay.
Don't come and don't
leave.
Please
erase away this word, this voice, this
song, so I won't have to sing again.
So did I love
you?
Well, I must have
because I'm still singing
and you haven't yet erased
me.
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