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,
beginning
to end,
I am
a new creation.
by: Claire Furjanic
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