Stationery of Memories

night-desk

Inside my desk is a photograph;
it lies there — without dust,
unseen by strangers,
always present

when the drawer is opened.
I turn to my journal, and
between busy pages is
a poem in looped-cursive hand,
preserved,

like a bookmark of petals.
Flowing from my pen
words that skitter across the page
smell of those summers when

musk intertwined with rose ribbons
of lovers’ hearts. I close the book
pressing verse on verse then
slip it back in the corner
beside the picture

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