My Colourless Book

If I was to read you a book,

But silent-songs zero decibels
High, were all you could hear.

Would you stay?

And dry vapidity filled your
Nostrils.

Could you touch the banal
Fragility in each parchment piece.

Would you wait?

As the taste of soot lingered
Leaving you panting, no-
Wheezing.

When you look back
The only afterimages are blank.
And the story was gone.

Would you cry?