A Breathing Book

I am reading myself.

The book is separate and distinct.
Dark brown binding and gold print edge.
The pages are old with that dust-musty smell.

Because of it I feel old
Though I sit here, younger than you.
My life is made up of dead letters;
words unsaid, unwritten, unthought.
I drift bat-black and a demi-man
encompassed in the grim, grey, wordlessness
of this life now.

I was whole.
Back when coffee was rich,
colours were alive, vibrant, there.
the damp, dawn blush dyed the sky
blues and pinks
and the anthuriums, alliums, aisles of flowers
threaded my life.

The pages turn,
I blink, cattish, blue space eyes
Narrowed on the words
Which scrawl like birds on
yellow paper.

I prised this book from your fingers,
A diary of sorts.

It seems you knew me well,
Enough to take my life inside the words
And trap me in two.