Stories

I first found solace in folded pages,
creased corners and faded text and a story
not just told by the ink, but by the spine,

opened to a single page over and over
and over again, covered in patches
of harder paper, stained by tears, or

the imprints of the thumbs
which have so firmly gripped its edges,
worn patches lining its cover.

Words are not the only things that can tell tales:
objects can be bards, too,
writing verse in their curves and framing lives with their hollows,

suspending them in moments of time
until they’re tangible — they say that we can’t feel
time, but I can find it tucked away

in musty yellow sheets of paper,
well-loved.