When your fingers
were soft
my words were wise.
When your smile
was wide
my pages were crisp.
And your eyes
sparkled
at my bolded knowledge.
Then your hands
were rough
and my pages crinkled.
Your mouth was
fowled
and my binding shriveled.
And your eyes
fatigued
while I coughed dust.
You map out
books: their
smaller titles,
tighter bindings,
shiny covers.
I remained
creatures disembodied,
rhymes greyed,
stories foreign.
My state still
holds
and your fingers sag.
My cover is
scribbled
but yours is weary.
My pages hold
wisdom.
Yours can't be read.
Smooth new fingers
tape old tears.
They hold home
and scented
candles. Something
close in their
manner.
Fingers with care.
Softness perhaps.
