Pages

Moments ago, I dreamt you were
papyrus,
no, I was not sleeping, daydreaming
or unconsciously praying for reality's
gate to open then close,
I was the scribe to your truth.

There is nothing wrong though you have
never felt ink settle between your shoulders
and curve down your spine to land
in the soft gentleness of your thighs.
You are metaphysical.
You are not yet developed.

I am a page also, perhaps not as sallow
nor worn, but just as dusty, specks of
my breath piloting a thousand stories
all unseen - unwritten work.

We are not yet novels, caressed by
known and unknown lovers and explorers,
picked up dangerously by star-gazers
uncertain there is world outside
of their world.

We are just beginning to see,
that there is more history to be touched
than what can be theorized by our eyes
and cryptographers.

Pages turn around and around
through tunnels of light, becoming
the walking feet of oceans
of generations.

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Written 5/08/13 @ 6:45 pm