Book of Days
Yesterday an old,
dusty notebook appeared on
my desk which I have
never thought to read
or even open again.
It was the book of
days filled with your words;
heart shards of mine which I kept
for another life;
for another me.
But now on I cannot tear
apart my gaze from
its pages for I yearn
to morph into one with your
own vowels and consonants.
Copyright © Diana Bosa | Year Posted 2016
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment