The first time we met was in a dusty corner of a library
where you were forgotten.
If spiders can read, they would have paid attention
but they were busy spindling their own webs
nobody knew your name.
There was a silent cry when your pages first opened
like a slight touch on a boiling wound
the things that flew around you were not stars but ash
I loved you anyway.
You had a moldy smell on each of your page, I was intoxicated
by the time, if not the memory
Each time I open you, you were different
as if the words radiate with a new meaning at every turn of the leaf.
We’ve been reading and re-reading ourselves
but we find new words every time.
Fairy tales are not just linear stories
we are books that cannot be closed.