are those found in the middle of the night—
when darkness savors light. I need a bookmark so you can always find me wherever you left me—on the days that your mind
lost the memory of us, on the nights
when the light bulb stopped working. I am the only book standing on your shelf, and you are the words inside of me.
Lucid and lovely, the words that make up
the story, yet it’s not a love story. Instead, you have your favorite book sitting on the bedstand. The one with a title—
etched on its hardbark cover. The one with verses
you even memorized. The one with a bookmark. I never envy that book but the story it breathes, like how you share a pancake and tea on a sunlit morning,
the grinning of people when they see lovebirds kissing—
that familiar smile my face had long forgotten.