´óÏó´«Ã½

Our love for each other is like a bookcase,
filled in every nook and cranny with elderly weathered books,
once read,
now doted upon with feather dusters
and the occassional mention in a tea party,
"Yes, that is a great book, it changed my life"
but it will never escape the alphabetical suffocation system
that you have created.

I am your Treasure Island,
once red with gold tinted edges
I have faded with age into a dull and dirty brown,
you remember the good times that we had together
but since you have figured out the twist and penultimate ending
you have no use in re-reading my soul.

I can flitter my pages
and I can be republished as many times as the modern day seems fit
but nothing can retract that sense of ecstatic unknowing
buried deep in the cavities of your brain
that reacted one fourth in the second chapter
and kept you gripped until we said "the end".