You.

With a coat of hand drawn sketches,

and a quartet of folded, hard cover corners, 

you ripped my thoughts from the base of a bottomless chasm

to the top of your recently dusted shelf.

Who else had beheld your smooth spine and clean edged pages, 

without leaving a trace,

before my rough hands oiled you with prints?

Why was I jealous of a story that another may have grasped more tightly and thoroughly than I, 

without knowing there was another at all?

Because, my dear,

you were mine.

The call of your untold truths resonated in my head

from your space on the loudest rock,

in a universe of screamed lies,

exploding inaccuracies

and hastily invented slander.

Your scent fluttered my pupils to another position of the clocks

and showed me a place where the calender's cubes formed strange rectangles instead.

I remembered you.

Perhaps, I had read you in another edition of myself.

An unedited version.

A me before grandfather clock revealed your face for reconsideration.

Perhaps, you taught me about the latest ME.

Perhaps, you shone a light on my darkest parts. 

The words you contained and laid before the world,

unashamed and shining,

pardoned my dreams of the guilty, lost fog they held upon themselves,

like glorious diamond shackles.

You,

with your chapters of thinly arranged wood, 

rolled away my haze,

as porous cloth cleanses

browning rims of mugs in the smallest hours of all night coffee shops.

Your honey sweet song sang to me across the floor of a dampened and tattered bookstore.

The carpet had traveled the world by foot, 

but our adventure was just beginning.

You knew I was yours,

and I would not have accepted any other fate.

My eyes have crossed every speck of ink on your body, now.

I know your curves,

your dips and grooves,

and your mountainous plummets.

You are my home.

But why, then,

my sweetest darling,

are you so difficult to understand?