By M. Scott Alexander
I let you borrow my favorite book—
three years ago.
It’s the one by Fitzgerald
that is under the passenger seat of your car.
It’s the one I’ve been craving to read;
the one you insisted you’d finish.
So I won’t ask for it back,
not yet, at least.
As long as you still have my favorite book
I’ll have a reason to think about you,
even when I want to forget.