I wondered when I would be opened,

when my letters would be renewed.

And my thoughts often wondered to a dark place,

where there were no bounds,

no borders, no grounds,

where there are pictures that light up so foreign,

but the dark enslaves their sound.


And Oh, how I wish to be awakened,

for my lips to spread,

to let out a dusty yawn form years in bed.

So in-shelved I am, now wrinkly and old,

my binds are loose, I could no longer hold.

But my pages are still here

Words, songs, phrases,

maybe there was something someone could remember.


The bookshelf keeps me from unraveling,

keeps me enclosed, untold,

but it no longer feels like home.

Should I feel confined?

Should I want to let go?


I am often obsessed with the thought of a touch,

a finger running down my spine,

or the eyes of someone enjoying what they find,

eagerly reading what’s inside,

or the taste for more,

no matter how spotted or torn.


So I wait,

I will be patient.

Because maybe one day,

I can be remembered