The well worn pages,
turn as I open the book,
for the thousandth time.
like shaking hands with,
an old friend.
Dog ears and notes,
in the margin,
the logbook of our moments,
in each other’s company.
Both of us stained,
by coffee, ink,
and time.
Scuffed covers and broken spines,
old eyes and old words,
together again.
