returning to abandoned books

There are many of them I’m ashamed to say
too many I’d admit to
they stand staring at me so erect
intermingled with the ones I’ve devoured
show offs, everyone of them
as if they had beat me in a fight
or like a discarded lover who had done nothing wrong
who has, rightly so, never gotten over it.
I have never gotten over them
should the occasion offer itself that I finish one
picked up where I left off
as if nothing ever happened between us
simply side-tracked
innocently distracted
they play hard to get all over again
and make it very hard for me to reconcile.
There are some victories, though
every one of them an exoneration.
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