i love you like a book of poetry.
specifically the one that sits
upon my book of shakespeare’s works
because your passion and mine
will always kiss upon my bookshelf.

i love you like the pages
of that old dusty thing:
1935, it was printed.
2013, a girl cradles it’s words
in the crevaces of her spine.

i have loved you for 78 years.

i love you like it’s cover,
tough and tan,
it has lived
longer than our years combined.
it has held together the whispers
of love and loss
of happiness
or grief
and it has yet to fail
the story it holds within.

i love you like a book of poetry
because that book will never hurt you:

you can cut it off right when it is at it’s best
but it will always wait for you to come back,

you can throw it across the room
but it will still fall open at your touch
and let you in,

you can leave it on a shelf never to be read,
but it’s verses will still be there
when you decide
to love,

and i love you like a book of poetry.