Bookmark
When I've turned to a fresh page
The bookmark beckons
I was ready
He is so kind
My heart is open
The bookmark beckons
Remember when it felt good
the way he held me
Remember when we tried that
for the first time
I try it now anew yet
the bookmark beckons
the chapters we could've read
the characters we could've grown to
endless possibility in unknown as
the bookmark beckons
Am I untrue, disloyal, not interested enough
Or is it that the only way to speak
is to unearth the words unspoken
No action required though I am compelled
the bookmark beckons












