Book

Worn, but supple,

Her skin, the cover of a well-loved book.

Crinkled and imperfect,

It holds a thousand tales..

A woman can tell the difference between a lover and a Love

By how they turn her pages.

Does a tear run down his cheek

When he sees how some of your pages

Were torn by those who had no business reading

A story they didn’t care to understand?

Does he touch each page, running his fingers slowly

Down all of your paragraphs,

Pausing even, to re-read the chapter

About the Granny you miss so terribly?

Or does he but skim through the slower parts?

The parts that matter the most to you?

The parts where you became... you?

Does he focus only on the juicy parts?

When you were sexy?

When you were happy?

When you were naked?

Is he careless with your pages,

tearing through them for more of what he wants?

The lover isn’t interested in how the story was written.

Nor the plot.

Nor even how he may inspire the next chapter.

He doesn’t realize, and wouldn’t much care if he did,

That your book isn’t finished yet

...and now he’s scribbling nonsense in your

precious margins.

Dog-ear his pages, if you must,

But do leave him in the footnotes, Dear,

and move on to the next Chapter.

It's the Love, not the lover,

That will help you write your

Happily Ever After.

Fini

CF, 2022