Her skin was the paper
of all of the books she
had ever read, her tears
were the ink and her thoughts
were all the words written
inside books. And the thing
about paper was that
once it was crumpled, it
could never revert back
to the way it was. Do
not ever crumple her.
Hold her close and run your
fingers over each of
her pages, along her
spine; but do not ever
make the awful mistake
of crumpling her up, or
of ripping her apart,
or of even folding
down one of her pages.
It cannot be undone.
YOU ARE READING
Scintillation ✓
PoesíaThis is a collection of poetry and prose about stars, love and the like. It is a glimpse inside my mind and a full view of my soul. My thoughts are like celestial dust: quite useless on their own, but once they come together, create a star that give...
