where the dust can't reach

What is that large book
with the brown leather cover
full of your broken cursive script

tiny black ink sketches,
doodles and circles
maps and numbers

you placed so tenderly
as if it were the feather from
an angel's wing:
the first best prayer of an immortal

releasing it a finger at a time
to the carress of the long shelf
you almost breathed
then looked furtively
for witnesses

so very careful to hide it under
several other books
(full of thoughtless thoughts)
when you thought no one was
watching you?

I suspect it was true
because lies are never worth hiding
that carefully.