She was a rose, pressed into the pages
Of a book, meant to hold a place.
Instead of a page in a book,
She held a place in his heart,
Which she thought she would always have.
But eventually, bookmarks are lost,
And stories are forgotten,
And all that is left is
The smell of the binding
As the book closes for the last time.
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 10:59 AM UTC
She was a rose, pressed into the pages
Of a book, meant to hold a place.
Instead of a page in a book,
She held a place in his heart,
Which she thought she would always have.
But eventually, bookmarks are lost,
And stories are forgotten,
And all that is left is
The smell of the binding
As the book closes for the last time.
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