The Librarian’s Last Lover

The library stood choked with dust,

Where moonlight bled through broken panes.

I traced the shelves with hands of rust,

And found your name in scarlet stains.

"Who reads these tomes?" the shadows hissed.

"The dead," I said. "And one last scribe."

For you had written every kiss

In margins black with lover’s bribe.

Your script outlasted flesh and bone—

A cursive scream, a plea in ink.

I kissed the page where you had shown

The way your pulse could fade to ink.

The night grew thick with phantom sighs,

As whispers curled like smoke between

The stacks where lonely poets lie

And stories starve for hands unseen.

I closed the book. The lock clicked tight.

Yet in the dark, your voice remained:

"Some loves are bound to end in night,

But ours was never meant for chains."

Now when the clocktower bleeds its chimes,

I hear your pen scrape fresh despair—

Another tale of stolen time,

Another ghost to haunt my chair.

"May your stories never fade to dust. Until next time, keep turning pages by candlelight."