This white tattered page reminds me of you
And your crumpled morning hair,
Your sleepy eyes finding my face,
Your smiles made of sunshine's truth.
This page with its crooked edges and creases worn
Reminds me of our talks,
Our walks.
The ways and words so familiar and new
As we tumble, and fumble, and stumble
Our way down these grassy detours.
But the grass becomes a path,
The path widens to a road,
And that road of dried ink
Leads to the world of what really happened.
"This page had its chance", or so they all said.
"This page was a goner", lost to the trash bin
Where lesser words go to hide.
But this page, like you, turns instead
To the wide, unexplored spaces,
Where the ink is still fresh,
The paths yet uncut.
Though folded, though used,
This page is not finished
And neither are you,
With your wit, your fire, those dreams and desires
You are not finished,
Keep wearing your tattered edges
Like a coat in the storm.
You are not finished,
And that is good.
