I bookmarked the pages, I folded them fast.
I tore out blank sheets of paper, I flattened them neat.
I choreographed my pen.
definite as every absolute,
words. these words, these snapshots of what you said,
thin air, vapors from the books.
they perplex. they fade.
we are none.
the pen stood still after words.
There is no point in affirmation of states,
Books contain more than just blacks and whites,
And the stains pass through pages.
restraint, I wonder?
confident scratches over the fibers.
truth I reckon, limited to three.
the rest, vanished in this mist of clarity.