I wish there was something more appropriate to put in those places
Something more mature
Something more becoming
Something more...
And I pour over them night and day
I've read them more than once or twice
I've more than memorized them
And tucked them into a quiet pocket hoping no one will ask of the words written there
But I've buried them
Where dew festers and sleeps with rain
A place for centipedes and bean sprouts
So, even when you're gone
And so are those pages
They'll remain crinkled in my heart
Their age obvious
Each word carved carefully with sincerity
But in the end
They will be thrown aside
And remembered for just that
Words on a page
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