people are books.
some leave you gasping in your seat,
teary eyed, broken up about it.
folded pages, dusty left behinds
in bins we shove in the attic,
ship away to the goodwill
somewhere after saturday morning coffee
they are ripped pages burned to ash
framed, cut into shapes by someone
who thought it was a good idea,
even though it’s just a cliche on a bookshelf.
teach you things, tell you things.
blank pages, fresh paper
reminders of better times, good times,
bad times, lost times, future times.
people are books.
they smell like hope and calm
and sometimes they are soggy and burnt
with ruin from something no fault of their own.
they have coffee stains, and food prints
and sometimes they fall apart
when you pick them up
because they have lived a life
that was never meant for something so fragile
people are books,
they are beautiful bound leather
and tattered paperbacks loved
a little too much,
lifetimes, lifetimes
of fierce love and hope and lessons.
people are books.


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