INK

My husband is always telling me how much he wishes he were a book that way I would pay more attention to him.


If you were a book
I would read
your worn
yellowed pages
until your dog-earred corners
crumble
like dry leaves
between my fingers.

I would like
to write you
into a new story.
One that would
grow you stronger
than the old one
under it's stubbled cover.

But other pens
in other hands
have sealed you
with salty ink
between these pages
and my pen
with the power of love

has just ran out of ...