But before I go,

This table has indentations from pens and from fingernails and from drinks which sat too long.
It has thick edges to hold off misdirection and thick legs to fight teetering: but it still does.
Maybe it hasn’t held any burgeoning masterpieces,
But perhaps it has held works of art and elbow grease. It has indentations
From laptops that got too hot and cell phones which distracted and mugs that were dropped
And shattered. It has scratches. It has faint lines from pretentious sentences scribbled with
     unpretentious intentions.
It has indentations and intentions of its own and memories of spines and finger bones, of
Fights whispered loud enough to overhear. It carries echoes of jokes shared and boisterous
     laughter —
Of frantic typing and sentences lost on the breezes of air conditioning. It remembers goosebumps,
Torn backpacks, tearful hellos and resentment. It remembers me and it carries the memories
Of every writer who came first, who wrote about it, who painted it and scribbled on it
And solidified it in type. It has thick edges and teetering legs and, if I asked it what it wanted
And if it had the courtesy of responding and if I could listen without hearing the forgotten
     personages of lost beings,
It might ask me to leave.

Stay gold,
Sabrina