Bookmarks

I don’t use bookmarks.
Well, not in the traditional sense.
I stuff old receipts
or paper shreds,
pieces of string
or gum wrappers
between the pages
of the books
I can’t part with.
And I can’t part with any.
My shelves are lined
with words I wish
I had written,
lines I long
to say to you
and to the world.
Notebooks strewn
with my own longing
hide amongst the classics.
And every page
is marked
with scraps of my life,
symbols of my love
for you and for words, 
for their pain
and their beauty.

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