Wednesday, 16 May 2012

The Smell of Old Books - by Susan Moffat

There isn't much left now. If I close my eyes I no longer see a sharp image of your face, your features are blurred now, like rain on a watercolour painting. I no longer feel the gentle stroke of your bark rough fingers on my flesh or the touch of your breath on my neck. All that my memory has left is the smell of old books and the knowledge that I was wronged.

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