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the decision
not mine
its time to call you
once upon a time

my fingertips gently trace
handsomely bound
in leather and locked
black and soft
a strange combination
with a key
more ancient than me

gently tucked between
a solid oak binding
he had insisted upon tradition
and a spiral notebook
disheveled and well loved

why there?
shelves with miles of stories
some as thick as Webster’s
some as short as cocktail coasters

I suppose
for the depth the quill cut
secures its place between
what was supposed to be
and all that came haphazardly
there after