In my other life i would have been a library book


because who doesn’t want to be read;


to be understood.


like wine, age would only make me more desirable


My bent pages, and coffee stains would bashfully hint at infidelity


Occasionally, i will witness love in it’s purest form'


death’s melancholic irony


and child birth.


like clockwork my words too will fade,


and my pages will fall out.


yet, i am eternal.


tomorrow i will be printed again


new pages, but the same words