the edges of our book curl up with age,
are yellowed from misuse
and hard summers.
our book is paper pages, thin like bibles
and the ink smeared, beloved paperback.
the cover of our book is
stained with coffee, sex, and cheap ballpoint
markings of an avid learner.
our book is new but ancient,
our book is so dry it falls apart in the sunshine.
the words of our book are too old to be read.