Old Book

Our love is a book bound in faded red leather
With dog-eared pages, our favourite parts
And bold-faced type that bleeds through
The emaciated pages, its seductive black ink
Retelling the story of how Jack met Sally
And how two broken pieces fit perfectly.
A fairy tale love, its happily ever after
Being written in the present tense despite
The fact that neither the prince nor the princess
Ever believed in a life after ever after.
A love that smells like musty brown paper
A wine that grows complex with age
Yet simpler to savour as the tip of your tongue
Tingles just thinking of its gentlest kiss.
Ah yes, our love is a weathered old book
Cherished by those who have leafed through
The yellowing pages and know that the end
Is merely a chapter that hasn’t been read.


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