Yesterday I finished reading a book, started about eight months ago
Seven months it slept by my pillow, gathering dust
Useless, purposeless
And we shared the same space
I always said I'd read it tomorrow
But it remained embarrassingly untouched
Living in periphery
Me and thinner, together for seven months
But one month ago, I picked it up again
And I could see those seven months on the paper
I saw it in the sharpness of its edges, the coldness of its touch
And I read it every single night
Now it sits up on my shelf, warm and complete
Its spine is spoiled, but its pages have curled up like petals
And it glows blue and pink, and it hums like a lullaby
Today I started a new book - a little longer than the last
And I hope you will see me to the end