She walked in the room
with a Bilgere book, curled up beside me
on the sofa, laid her head in my lap
and slowly turned pages as I tried to read
a paper, studying my face like she was
inspecting my blueprints.
All I could think was that love isn’t static,
it’s a place where we learn to read
one another, to flip through our pages
wary of content and style, plot lines
and archetypes, nouns and verbs, trying
not to read between the lines and drafting
rainy passages together on those days
when tears get in the way.
When I read her, I’m careful not to skim
over paragraphs, break bindings or smear ink.
I love her foreword, dedication, signed
inscriptions and how she introduces characters
in my life. When I reach the epilogue,
I flip to the index to find my favorite passages
and prepare to read her all again.
Our dénouement came that afternoon,
in a lightly lit room, on a thin red checkered quilt,
when I found a way to read the softness
of her skin, and the insistence in her voice,
making sure I marked my place in the middle
of chapter three.
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