i held your book
upon my lap
as you sat still before me,
each page a tiny lock of hair,
on fire, alive and flowing,
touching something
beyond the skin,
some deeper beauty
culled within.
i wanted to press
the pages to my lips,
to commit them all to memory,
in case our time
ran out too quickly,
and you forgot my bravery.
***
(old poem december//2009)
