The queen’s search

I find Sartre’s ”Of human Freedom” on my bookshelf. Wrapped in a dark green leather binding with a familiar smell of a library book from overseas.
Oh, where does this come from? I know immediately.
Hmmm ”I can’t.” I tell myself with a cheeky smile and put it back in another bigger gap, my hands fondling with the object for a moment as if taking a lovers hand for the first time.
At least, this one still has a back cover.
I collect dysfunctional books,              really?
Where is it!
Bottom shelf, together with uni folders and bigger bindings.
I fall on my knees.
Once again my sight is distracted by the Renaissance and dinosaurs. A classic. In fact: three.
Whereof only two are in my possession.
The shelf is actually more a reflection of what I do not posses. Different languages, words written in my own handwriting and other’s.
As my eye line wanders along the shelf nearest to the ground, carefully from left to right, over names, nameless covers and burgundy folders, I come closer. During and after the move I put the most fragile pieces of paper in your envelope of which I kept every single one, to be treasured like a book in itself.
Your name and address in the top left corner and crossing the cardboard mine in the bottom right. In the middle it reads: Don’t fold or bend. It is too late that I have realized the bigger meaning of that. There is no crossing. Not for those two names on the front. 
Not yet?
I never told you but the first thing I always did each time you send a letter was, to smell it. Every sheet, every book, every single thing has its distinctive aroma…only your letters did not smell at all. Ever untouched, they were, before you wrote on them, first in original handwriting, later in capitals.
For too long, I ponder on what I still miss. In thoughts your eyes appear in the room, then my hair ribbon loosens and my hair falls in odd waves over my shoulder. I forgot what I was looking for.
A fog from the last weeks begins to clear, while my right hand reaches inside the envelope, digging out various other cardboard pieces in brown and blue. Its absence also from this hiding place distresses me.
I never lose anything (except for my black thermal leggings) and if it is not in its rightful place, then my head changed patterns.
I take more time to inspect the envelope. It speaks as clear as your voice in the videos does.
Your art noveau signature and the proud three letters stating the contents: ART

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