Gemotions

The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls of the old library. Michael, leaning against a bookshelf, held the anthology open, the pages brittle with age. *His* poem, printed under another's name, stared back at him. A feeling bubbled up inside him.

He remembered the late nights spent hunched over his desk, wrestling with the meaning of each word, the intense desire to communicate. He recalled the joy of creation, the satisfaction of stringing together perfect sentences. The pain of the theft had faded long ago, replaced by a different sensation.

He gently traced the lines of the poem with his finger, each word a ghost of his younger self. A feeling of closeness, almost like a secret shared between two versions of himself, filled him. The poem was more than just words on a page. It was a piece of him, a part of his soul.

A smile touched his lips. He was the one who wrote it.