Little Boxes

Red leather-bound book speaks
Before I hold you in my sleep
I hold you in these pages
Burning each syllable
Completely
Incomplete

Your fragments
They wither without notice
from one spectrum
to the other
Sadness
Happiness
Overwhelming sadness

You are nebulous
Paradoxical
These eyes closing cuts
across brief times, veins
Bleed upon these pages
Where I cannot fully contain you
Here

But a book is more than enough
It knows you more than I do
And loses me the more
you fill Its spaces
It is more than enough;
For someone will meet you
Halfway.

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