Let me be the first to break your spine and leave pieces of me in your various folds.
The stamp reads today's date and it's typeface makes me miss every night I unintentionally spent with my steel-gray type writer.
I could scrawl my name onto you, like personal property, were this another time.
It's sad to think how modern everything has become.
Instead our moments will be private; all the idiosyncratic gestures you evoke seen only by passing strangers and bitten coffee stirrers.
When I read, I can never quite comprehend what constitutes the end.
No comments:
Post a Comment