Stories sell themselves to you

Stories sell themselves to you
Through iris of the eye
An earring, breaking, or walk
On through, whispers, loudly, “time.”

Stories sit on bookshelves
Like bones inside a case
Captive to be kicked around
Or forced into a face.

The vertebrae are letters
In the spine of book and page
The blood inside the skin, your skin,
Spurts out the bluish pain.

And somewhere in a tiny room
Clippings, crumbs and wine
Coffee filters on the chair,
You sat there writing mine.

My lips cannot just thank you
They crackle with the tune
Your thinking written into stone
Beyond fem superficial “true."