I am holding it.
It has soft deckled edges
as I desired.
And it is small enough
with a hard protective shell
to fit in a woman's purse,
even if women are wearing
updated backpacks
to make them look
younger,
I suppose,
judging by the cover.
The cover is just an entry point,
if interested.
I hold its
girth and heft
knowing it is more than mine.
In crimson foil shapes,
I recognize the letters lining up
down the spine
as my own.
It moves me
to turn the page
while cradling this
creation and holding it
to life.
I can smell it
as though it were my own
perfume, never the same
sinking in
to different skin.
I am holding
these things
accountable,
tangible,
reliably
resulting
in heavy thoughts
with soft deckled edges.
Painting by Master of the Mansi Magdalen [Public domain].
