I pick you up and put you down again,
when I am weary of trying new things,
or frightened of new things.
Palm on your spine,
thumbs spreading you.
My eyes dart across
what I have seen
a dozen dozen times before,
but each nuance is treasured,
and each flaw accepted.
You’re an old love,
and I re-read you
time and time again,
even though I imagine
there are far better, newer stories
for me to experience.
People think it’s because you’re such a great read,
but in truth,
each time I take you back into my arms,
and open you like a book,
I am hoping for an alternate ending.
