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