Yesterday an old,
dusty notebook appeared on
my desk which I have
never thought to read
or even open again.
It was the book of
days filled with your words;
heart shards of mine which I kept
for another life;
for another me.
But now on I cannot tear
apart my gaze from
its pages for I yearn
to morph into one with your
own vowels and consonants.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 1:18 PM UTC
Yesterday an old,
dusty notebook appeared on
my desk which I have
never thought to read
or even open again.
It was the book of
days filled with your words;
heart shards of mine which I kept
for another life;
for another me.
But now on I cannot tear
apart my gaze from
its pages for I yearn
to morph into one with your
own vowels and consonants.
Request permission to use this poem