I don’t like having to put in the effort on things that leave an extra page missing
I can’t trust it
You’re every little thread I’ve tiptoed around
Making sure I don’t move on unchartered space too quickly  
I felt like you didn’t want that too
With your experience and all
Your chapters have started
There have been important people
Leaving fly leafs
Or bookmarks
Waiting to be scanned through blankly
Or
Revisited
I don’t know who was important enough
And I’m too afraid to ask
As to who
That little thread head was
So I made a subtle investigation
I’ve wandered around some parts of your book to merit
Audible versions of this girl whose book
So well covered
In dusted promises and doodles
There was an innocence left of her
That was so kept
She needed to hold my hand
To lift her pages so slightly
“Careful”
She whispers a great deal
These past few months
She’s trusted me with
The choreographed pressure of how
To feather the leaves of her past
On good days she’d read back ours
I’ve quoted enough lines and characters and memories
To entertain her of how it once was
The threads vibrate and echo
Reiterated but answers back the same
The untangled locks at least
I’ve seen fly leafs
Those were left with no closure
“We kind of just stopped talking” or “can we not mention her”
I’ve seen bookmarks
Of relatives and family and friends
And lovers
The bookmark had thread hair that tangled up so much that it left an aching worry in my heart
She was a lover
A lover with a bookmark
The bookmark who echoed a little too differently and brushed my skin too often when I’d lift a page
A little too close to the chapter on which she was written about
I don’t have quotes on her
But I have their stories
Stories have become our currency
The currency that equaled trust
The same currency that taught me how she was
And how to be
The currency that mattered
I’ve invested on these stories and have managed the skill of being gentle
I was the chapter that started after the messed up spool of the thread head lover
I guess that’s why it brushes in so close to me
I’m worried that I’ll end up tripping over thread, hold a page too tight
That I’ll rip down my own pages
And mess up perfectly fonted words
Forcing you to
Close down a chapter of me with a torn out page
You were too sentimental to throw away
And just be left as not even
A bookmark
But rather a poor excuse for a fly leaf that
You’d rather not talk about.