But to suck happiness from these books
Pressing upon these leather bound yellow pages
As though its life would assume mine
Or the other way round,
To implant my life
Into these pages
That so and so loved me,
Hated me, scorned me,
That I fought for what I thought
Was given to me in birth
If I could convert it all into words
Written in black ink on white paper.
That my futile experiments to love
Threw me into chaos and disharmony
Unsure, Afraid, Uncertain
Worries and torments
I don’t quite know if I did love him
But memories, they don’t fade.
They stay embedded like ice on the
Receding during summers
But back again in winters.
And then there are other things
That press upon my soul
Knocking on my door
To be let in during a midwinter’s night.
Lovers or murderers, I know not.
I do not wish to know
So I turn the page.
Another chapter, another conflict, another protagonist.