Open Book

A book lies open on the table outside.
I watch it from the kitchen window. 
The breeze, like delicate fingers,
Turns the pages a few at a time;
Reading the words
You didn’t have a chance to.
Forever suspended in time,
I can’t bring myself
To go out there and close it,
Just in case it’s you
Who moves with the wind,
Caressing the pages.
At last, discovering
How the story ends.

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