Written

I am unknown.
It is a simple truth.
He took my secrets with me when he left.

My face is blank and flat.
It is the cover of a never-read novel.
A new copy-the one he penned is gone.

I am sitting on a shelf,
Closed just like everybody else,
But with an unbent, clean spine.

You can't see the damage on the outside.
It is written on the pages inside, unseen
Unread and unknown.
--11.20.07