Taking the book down from the shelf, I blow away the dust that has settled on the cover.
With a flourish, I open it and flip through the yellowed pages.
Memories, like the words I once wrote on those pages, flood back into my mind with a warm embrace.
A verse here, a stanza there, the words surround me and comfort my old troubled mind. With shaky hands I caress the spine and hold the journal close to my chest. My childhood friend who I trusted with the wonders I spun in my youth.
YOU ARE READING
Dreaming Fiction
PoezjaHere lies a growing collection of poems written for reality, from fiction.
