Books beg to be read
as their pages whisper,
syllables of loneliness.
“Love me,
as I love the touch of your hands
on my untracked spine.”
“Choose me.
Let me linger in your mind
as slow sipped wine.”
Once the pages open,
words walk through soul.
Hook, to your whole.
Tethering other’s stories
to what makes you,
you.
“Meet me,
in pages of cream,
Through ink dark as dreams.”
©2021 Mary Grace van der Kroef
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Mary Grace Writing 