Most books
I've lost or destroyed.
Only a few
always remain
by my side.
If any books last,
they’re full of
coffee stains,
small folds,
worn-out pages.
Time spent
scrolling libraries -
shiny covers,
loud titles
posing for attention.
I see their beauty,
but none
caress my soul.
I know the moment
when it happens.
I’ve read
similar first chapters
once before.
The first page -
lightning bolt,
mental spotlight,
my heart whispering:
nothing else matters.
But every page
I turned,
I feared
all I love
could vanish
within just a few words.
Stories progress -
and so
their characters too.
I struggled
to keep up,
to grow with you.
I wish I kept reading.
I was frightened
by your clean slate -
no visible scars
to match mine.
I was afraid
to be misunderstood,
to be a burden.
You never knew
what it’s like
to have all you care for
blown up like fireworks
on a sad New Year’s Eve.
I expected too much,
hoping you’d see
dried up waterfalls
behind my stage light smile.
Years passed. I’ve grown.
I think I’m ready
to read again.
I hope you’re there,
somewhere,
looking for me.
Know that I too
search for you.
Show your torn-down soul
wherever you express.
Tell the whole world
how you defied
cold ravines,
silent nights.
Lay breadcrumbs
along your path
of self-destruction.
Trust in me
seeing you
as you drag
yourself along.
Let’s rebuild
our lives
together,
with worn-out tools.
