Your hands turn pages in the firelight,
leaving creases where the
words burn bright.
I trace the margins of your thought,
finding stories time forgot.
Each chapter folded at the edge,
a promise kept without a pledge.
While the embers wrote their cursive glow,
on walls that watched our shadows grow.
Oh, read me slow, read me true,
the way the willow reads the dew.
Let midnight turn its tender leaf,
where love is scribed but not believed.
The binding cracks,
the ink may fade,
yet every line of you remains.
Left your mark on paragraph five,
a coffee stain where the prose came alive.
Now the spine remembers how we bent,
the way we lingered in each indent.
The bookmark rests where the story breaks,
between the given and the takes.
While the epilogue waits in the empty chair,
a breath of air,
a strand of hair.
We were footnotes in a greater text,
annexed lovers softly vexed.
Now the library
dust will say we were borrowed,
but not to stay.
So I'll shelve us where the quiet grows,
between the known and the knows.
And the moonlight turns the page,
it finds the love we couldn't cage.
A volume thin, but endlessly deep,
where all our unwritten hours sleep.
So
I'll shelve us where the quiet grows,
between the known and the knows.
And when the moonlight turns the page,
it finds the love we couldn't cage.
A volume thin, but endlessly deep,
where all our
unwritten hours sleep.