The Missing Page

There's a novel on my book case that has a missing page,

With a broken spine and faded word of an indeterminable age.

I often sit and wonder does it know it isn't there,

If I felt a piece of me missing would I long for it, would I care.

It's somewhere in the middle not crucial to the plot,

But why did fate decided which one should be forgot.

Never to be spoken, never read aloud,

Never to bask in the glory of making its reader proud. 

Did time ravage the binding, was it ripped without consent,

Accidental or with malice, torn, misshapen, crumpled or bent.

Has it been recycled, is it lying in a box,

Burned atop a fire or ingested by a pesky fox. 

I will shed a tear for you, I will mourn your premature demise,

Like a Phoenix from the ashes your unabridged counterpart will rise.

I often sit and wonder what makes us feel complete,

Do we shed forgotten pages, replace them, rewrite, repeat.