Without a Bookmark

She was like a book.
A freshly printed edition
Of fine literature.
An amazing story
That stirred
And riveted my attention.

Every turn of the page
Was a gain
And a loss
Of equal proportion.

She was a story
That brought great pleasure
And deep sorrow
In the realization
She was slipping from me
With the turn of every page.

Her scent was papery pure
Her body as white as the open pages
Seemingly aglow in the window's
Bright light.

The ink of her story was indelible
And black as midnight against the page
A story of amazement and passion
A story of bittersweet romance
And tender expression.

Her very touch was a new chapter
An escalation of promise
But also a drifting away of her presence.

Her story was bound in the finest cover
Her title scribed in flecks of gold.

All her edition lacked
Was a bookmark
To remind me
Where I was in the unraveling.

Years later
Her book rests
In the library of my heart.
I rarely retrieve it
Because the tale
Is too painful.

Her's is
After all
A narrative
And without a bookmark
I loose myself in the account.

But the truth is…
I simply love the weight of it
When it rests
Open in my hands.