i like a book to have its stowaways

post-its and postcards and tearaway squares with the purposefully faded butterflies and coffee cups that you can impose yourself upon

even cocktail napkins

i like when you pick one up, how there’s a falling of leaves and words defined and abandoned poems and the phone numbers of men you should not have written down, let alone stowed away

i like how these stowaways gather up against the beginning and end

and between the sewn pages ordered and re-ordered over and again

i like the semblance of self found,

added to the enterprise of another:

be it an entirely formed story

or lined and awaiting what someone, such as yourself, may have to put down

i like how, over time, what was once stark, just the two colors:

one for the page and one for the ink

pixilates and blurs

and may no longer lay flat enough on your desk

i like how, in the reconsidering, it perpetually appears and re-appears both simpler and more wrought than it once did

i like how the stowaways are sometimes cast away

and sometimes just lost

and others still that show up as replacements

i like how, given your curiosity, vanity and your sense of preservation, that you recognize such a volume for the infinitely renewable source and resource that it is

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