The creases across my

Tough bindings have softened

And smoothened,

As sinewy muscle does with disuse

And the passage of time.

But even with the sighs

And grunts of old age,

This leather fortress

Never permits the escape

Of even a single word

From within these sealed confines.

Don’t fret,

Your secrets are safe

Within the gossamer webs

Of my ruled lines.


That are still discoloured by

The flowery patterns of bruises formed

From the sheer weight of

The words they are bursting with.

The ink

Still floods my leaves with all the

Confessions that lie in the murky

Depths of your words.

Your story

Is immortalised in the secrets

You have tattooed upon every

Inch of my body.

My perpetually shut pages

Form a tight embrace around the

Flowers pressed within my core,

Their sole comfort

As they mourn the loss of their youth.

They are my children now.

Please remember

That I have loved you through hurricanes,

Where tearful storms dissolved me,

And shaking hands tore me apart

At my roots.

Why don’t you come back?

Maybe tell me,

what have you been up to?

I’m sure I can spare a few

Stray centimetres

On some lone margin.


Come and carve fresh words

Upon me, would you?

For old times sake?