The bookbinders daughter

My life is not a post-it note.
You cannot scribble memories
onto a small predetermined square
and not miss a few important sentences.

My thoughts do not stick,
conveniently to surfaces,
where they might lose themselves.
The adhesives are not up to standard,
for the intricate meaning
of my souls folds and textural meanderings.

My life is an intimate tome.
An old fashioned script,
in feathered penmanship
with parchment pages,
and perfumed pressings.

My life is caressed pages,
small tear-stained passages,
and worn sections,
with bookmarked favorites
trailing tasseled ribbon,
like streamers,
to celebrate,
each moment lived.

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