the shelf of a thing

Handed over two copies of the same book in a day.

One as a gift, carefully chosen.
The other, a loan passed between moments.
He’d read it before—
he was the first person I ever trusted it with,
back when sharing something you love
felt like peeling back a piece of your skin.
I knew he’d get it.
Knew he’d underline the same pages,
feel the ache in the same place…