You sat there still and silent,

waiting patiently for the day I open myself to you.

Your silence sang to me,

breathed life into my hands.

My words your mouth did spew when you spoke

poetry in the night.

You were warmer than the blankets

that wrapped around my shaking shoulders.

Your pages softer than the softest pillow

in my line of sight.

You’re not silent anymore.

You rave and rant,

Weep and whisper.

With your cover worn and pages torn,

you whisper words of a twelve year old’s wisdom.

When I pick you up,

in my palm you fit

as you sing your song to me.

I listen closely to your sound,

the sound of bittersweet memories.