Your existence is poetry to me.

You are like an accidental good read that was left undiscovered,

The kinds where I never want the story to
come to an end

The kinds where as I flip the pages, I do not feel like I know the plot better,
but rather, there’s so much more to know about the story

The kinds where I know my heart would feel heavy
as I’m reading the last page because then I wouldn’t know
what to occupy my waking thoughts with except how morose I am
that it had eventually come to an end

The kinds where years down the road when the pages are foxed,
I’d reread the book and fall in love with every single word all over again

And although I know that you’ll definitely be an accidental good read
turned the best piece of writing I’ve ever read,

I keep you on the shelf, unread,
because I would rather feel contented
just seeing you sit prettily untouched
than be left devastated to see the blank leaf at the end.


 

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