Life On A Shelf

How can I put you into words?
To do so seems unjust.
I cannot bring myself 
To confine you to a page.
Two-dimensional; black and white.
‘Turn a man into literature
And he’ll live forever.’
I feel the opposite.
Entrapping you in words
Seems unkind.
You’ll end up on a shelf,
Collecting dust and days.
Yes, I will read you
But only occasionally,
And perhaps weeks,
Or even months, will pass by,
Where I’ll forget
To read you at all.
A sad life indeed.
Stay out here with me.
I’ll read to you instead,
And tell you my dreams
In great detail.

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