You are my once-a-year read,
spine long broken and wrinkle soft.
I want you even after your corners yellow,
and brittle to break at the fold-over edges.
 
Yes, I’ve folded you again and again;
marked you with pen and highlighter and coffee stains,
until every letter of you is etched in me.
 
I fear your ending pages,
our time together more than an index of moments;
or sweet passages committed to memory,
changing who I am.
 
Instead I give you pause,
as we both collect a little dust
until cracking each other open again.

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