reader

if i can open your life, like a book,
first i will need to pry, carefully, the covers apart,
a finger firmly on the spine, the edge of each page sliding,
a slow cascade sideways, against a thumb,
and i will need to free, to drown myself in,
the sweet smell of words in print.
this may be the only time to do this.

the dive comes after,

the words will come at me, in torrents,
i expect that, from what i know about you;
and i will be ready for this, and i will want this surge, but,
at times, i will have to resist your current,
understand me when i want to take this slowly,
when i will have to linger at every sentence, every word,
i may not have another chance to savor each.

if you don’t mind my pace, then,
let me ride your roller coasters,
let me clamber up your highs and stumble down your lows,

let me in.

because, for better or for worse, this all will end,
because, if i can open your life, like a book,
the closing is inevitable, (and i know it will be undeniably too soon)
and all the pages will cascade back to sleep.
all the words will fold back under the covers,
the roller coaster ride will come to a halt,
this fair season will give way to a world without you.
our climbs will have claimed the summit.
and our falls will have marked the ground,
and you will be a memory, fragile, susceptible to straying away,
in my mind that’s too much of a colander,
too many holes. all too flawed. all too human.
inevitably incapable of holding on to you.



2015.jan.23