Librarian

Librarian

I borrowed something, perhaps a book, which is always just a book,
or a fork which is never wholly a fork,
an apple torch, actually a beacon light,
the entire colour yellow,
not like late nights whispering secrets,
or the scent of vanilla on pine,
not like a garden, or a documentary
or a song,
not like the taste of salt,
sand beneath feet,
not on a mound under small trees,
or above a river, under others,
not like others, the presumption and nervousness of others,
not like words, or sounds,
that are not quite words but communicate something
so fathomably,
not like a lighter,
or a swimsuit,
or window frames,
not like knees,
nothing like knees.
I borrowed something,
loaned something,
returning books
is like severing a heartstring.