an old book.
weathered by my hands,
the torn page,
the dog ear
where i twisted the edge
down
for further reading.
the cover limp from
being wet
with bath water.
i pick up her book
and read
the same poems over
and over.
they still ring true.
feel as new
as they did when i first
read them
thirty years ago.
neither of us has really
changed.
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