Between the pages
|The bookstore is filled with yellowed books,
the scent of grandma's attic wafting through the
dusty vents and bored employees who haven't
ever heard of the book with the green cover.
Dog-eared pages hold memories of IOUs,
long-forgotten placemarks passed on to the
next adventurous soul.
The covers are full of loving notes:
To Meredith, on your birthday.
Little commemoratives that mean nothing
as we skip ahead to the story, fingers never
tracing the ink's indention, wondering who
they were and who they are now.
Like all the rest, they'll end up spine out on
the bookshelf, a little secret between the covers.