Musky margins with amorous musings
in my used hardback book passed along;
previous owner to lover's perusing
to my own eyes. So uncomfortably wrong,
for these faded fancies were not meant
for me yet fate should have it I read these lines:
"This reminds me of the time we have spent"...
such sweetness I could not hold as mine.
It sickens that such care is discarded
and that the calligraphy's charm isn't cherished,
when someone's read is so well regarded
that their love lives on when the page has perished.
So perhaps paper is the best thing to hold;
its meaning stays true when people's grow old.