It is in this book, laced with silver and laughter,
bound with opulence and tragedy
that my loves will exist far after
they have left to mimic me.

It is on these pages, torn and yellowed,
where memories will become partial moments once more,
long after years and tears shared with young, blithe fellows
have turned to dust on Heaven's floor.

It is between these lines that I should be read,
where no words are cast in ink at all,
where I am my truest self
in softened silence where no voices fall.

And it is on the shelf where this book sits perched,
taunting curious and glancing eyes,
where I may find some humor in my wealth
of closed chapters and endings without good-byes.