I’m reaching out, engaging and scrutinizing;

skimming through to see you.

Holding you intently, purposefully and committed.

You seemed an open book.

The audio version of your story mesmerizing, your truth so bold.

Then I went beyond your notes and found blank pages.

They told a different story.

You ring hollow.

There’s nothing there.

I have to put this book down.

The efforts made to unravel the mystery, and

the chances taken diving right in brought me no pleasure.

I learned nothing.

Maybe another blank page can read you properly.

I won’t waste my time on an empty binding.

Not again.

When I’m ready to read again, I’m sure

I’ll find a better book to discover.