I wonder if bookmarks should be fancy,
Those you don't want to lose sight off. So,
every once in a while, I pick a leaf or a used
cinnamon stick to use as a bookmark. Like I
am racing to finish the story before the leaf loses
its verdancy or the stick loses its
already faint fragrance. And sometimes the
metaphor isn't lost on me, of how stories
breathe when we breathe in into their words.
And how they end up as memories.