A scrawl in the margin of a tattered book-
And memories tinted in yellow antique lights,
Play deep in your irises;
And in mine,
our love.
In abeyance, we could live,
And in that moment,
we love;
The world would cease to be,
Slowly, like a half-remembered dream;
If.
All there is,
Is a book with someone's name on it.
Not yours, not mine.
And that scrawl on the margin,
Not yours, not mine;
But,
It could be ours.
