Yours was a worn out tome
Maple leaves in-between sheets
Membranes, whole universe tucked away
Underneath your arm, secured by a sentinel of light
Delicate, repelling darkness with wisdom of mountains
Mine's a paperback
Broken and creased spine, held tight
Moulded into my hand
Fingerprint, Identity
I have a book light, late nights, tired eyes
Pages unattached, barely sane
Her's smelled of libraries, autumn
My own of campfire oceans and rain
We both smelled of rain                      Petrichor
Sweet and salty
Her fragrance was the ichor of the gods                    Ichor  
I was the dirt                     Petra
Each page, layered with mine
We cannot be severed, only burned

In my pages, half-thought poems and abandoned dreams
In yours, careful cursive, romantic essays
Corrosive
None the wiser, we both ignite

But

One cannot rise against two
And a threefold cord is not easily broken