The day is sunny,
Lethargic,
A newly awoken cat
Slowly strolls across the blue of the sky,
And I look back on a gilt-edged,
Or rather,
A guilt-edged
Pop-up book
Containing the contents of life—
A life almost detached from my own mind.
I trace my finger on and along
The paint and faint ink splatters,
The pain and progress stains,
The salt and medication containers,
So vivid,
Yet violently blurred,
By the smearing brush of time —
Continuously in motion,
Layering picture over picture.
Some images are almost waterproof
And jut sharply out of the book,
Nearly escaping
But eternally pasted onto the pages.
They spitefully stick out—
Volatile,
Throbbing
Paper cuts.
Some are laminated,
Clumsily stapled to the book in glee
(Glue wasn't quite strong enough
To bear the weight
Of the fond nostalgia and joy
Bursting out the seams),
Clear or tinted happily green.
Innumerable photographs, drawings, writings
Bound to the young, worn spine,
Each ethereal and ephemeral all the same
Yet there were so many more pure, white pages
Awaiting the aging yellow to nibble at them.
The lazy feline obscured the sun
With its massive body
As it spread itself,
Stretching.
Perhaps it was time to head inside.
I shut the book.
Maybe I should've brought a pen to continue.
