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

 

-S.A