You are amused, sometimes dubious
at my emergence,
sudden and persistent all at once.

Repetition bores you:
the ceremonious question of how work went
and if you exceeded your caffeine quota for the day.
I show up at the library
every Saturday.

I am the tired novel that has outlived its climax
which you keep reading just because
you like to verify the ending is,
anyway, what you predicted.

I am the sad reminder of
your unfulfilled ambitions and
the decade that has no chance at revival
even if I have snaked myself past the years
to this.

But that is the point.
You will miss the habit,
a decimal of your lifestyle
even if all it was
was predictable as tap water.
You will be broken when
I am the grave memory
of your youth.

We may not love.
At least you will notice
when I am gone.