They do not know, what it is
To be inked down by heaven
In typewriter font,
Be romanticised alongside
Novels, logs and even more novels,
In a ridiculously fragile binding,
That has been marred by an iron grill
Tainted with tea stains
And yellowed by an overdose of spring.
Our words may be missing,
Our insides may be stuck,
Our edges may be cut
We never miscommunicate
We overcome all hindrances
We don’t let a page number define our togetherness.
They call our papery pages
Grey, gray, and boring
When they are just a wilted rose
That travels through each chapter
Without grasping anything,
When they are just a postage stamp
That guarantees to send our message across
Without knowing its contents.
Darling, they’ll probably never figure out
That we are a classic novel
Being published as we go on.