Bookmarked

She was like one of those books

Kept at top left corner in the back of a bookshelf,

That nobody ever looked at,

Perhaps because she was hard to contemplate.

They didn't see the magic she weaved.

I wanted to flip through her pages,

To hum the rhymes that ran down her curves

And read the phrases that cut through the edges,

Decipher the voids in her silence,

The metaphors in her eyes,

And the allegories her mysterious smiles left.

I would often sit,

Crossed legged, arms clasped,

To discover myself

Somewhere between those words,

And it would come to me often

Reading along the silences and pauses.