Memory

You’re in books.

Your memory echoes between pages,

Your voice permeates cover to cover:

Pretentious mutterings scribbled in margins.

Your eyes are the rusted orange corners of folded over leaves.

Your hands are the letters,

Long and deliberate.

Your smell is ancient like the sweet decay of paper,

Like unshaken dust.

You are the words, the rhyme, the symbols,

The plot, the beginning, the bitter end.

You are books.

++ my backspace key is on the verge of breaking, this could be eenteresting