A book is for life…
I was given a book to write in,
For the story of my life.
I scribbled and scrawled at first,
But a story took shape as I grew.
Some pages were so dark and I couldn’t change them…
At some points I could hardly write it all.
Some pages were torn and some seemed already filled in,
Sometimes it all flowed so easily.
I met you and it was a revelation
Your book was brighter, you were such a better writer
Your book had more black pages than mine yet you had somehow written more
You drew pictures in your book, diagrams of dances
You stuck things into it and folded it into shapes
I knew I wanted to read your story alongside mine
Wanted some of that colour, to see where your story went
We interleaved our pages and you decorated mine,
We even started some stories of our own
But all our books have a certain number of pages
No matter how we cram them or try to keep them clear
I read what you wrote to the very last page
I think you even drew on the back cover
Now I sit with blank pages before me
I’ve forgotten how to write without you
Your book is with me always
I leaf through it all the time
It has a beginning and an end, but it’s still there, whole
Mine is just a copy; the first edition is safe in the library of life
… and always will be.