I read a chapter of your book,
made some notes in the margins,
left strands of my hair to mark the pages
where I appeared.

I sip the words like holy water,
drunkenly compose letters
on scraps of paper I keep hidden under my bed
in a box labeled "revisit"
--and I do, over, and over, and often.

Sometimes I pick up my pen and
set it down again,
suddenly lost in a conversation,
a spilled coffee,
the smell of burnt cloves
on your fingers and your mouth.

I know how it ends,
still torn over wanting to be a recurring character and not just a
filler scene.
Tonight,
I'll content myself with being a memorable subplot
written into a salty-sweet dream.