A History of Bookbinding

We were


a book, bound

by your parchment-ality,

twice-folded beneath empty

promises, only meant to last

four leaves, a quarto volume

of the past year


a book, bound

by needle and thread, pages

tethered but never aligned.

Sticky fingers, we glued

our signatures together


a book, bound

by an untitled spine, decorated

in bitter hues of silenced sorrow,

a mere reflection of our status,

my heart and its ache.


I am


a book, rebound

by pre-existing love,


a scroll, rerolled

around the single core of being,

an echo of the ancient Greeks.


Unwind me, the complete

me, then read me,


to end,


I am


a new creation.


by: Claire Furjanic

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