Yesterday
I found the bookmark
you had gifted me five years ago.
It lay in a paperback
between pages 8 and 9.
The cover hadn’t lost its gloss,
and not a single page had creases.
Odd, considering most of my books
end up with dog-eared pages.
Some have been read so long,
they always stay open
no matter how much I slam them closed.
But this one looked untouched.
I wonder how I had read the first chapter.
Maybe I slept my way through it.
The Dirty Thirty, Poem 11
Advertisements
Awesome! Words cannot express how beautifully your feelings come out through this thought.
Thank you. Glad you liked the poem.