Unturned Pages
I often pace floors, allowing rooms to read me.
An open book with no one left to turn the pages.
Rehearsing my lines in the corner, mouthing sentences that haven't yet arrived.
Quietly waiting for someone to trace their fingertips against the eggshell sepia-toned recto.
Though in pristine condition, I am cockled, foxed, soiled.
Ready to unravel from the spine.















