Leather

I want my man like I want
my books: warm to touch,
smooth on the inside but
rough along the edges,
leather-bound with a hard
back, filled with sordid
stories to tell.

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He tells me he’s not a writer as he
explains his struggle to find the
right words to express his love for
me. Behind his every cliché line and
overused metaphors, I know there is
something so precious between us
that language itself can’t name.
So I treasure every word he gives
me like they are pieces of himself,
because goddamit, at least he tries.

  • For Day 15: Endeavors, #ourpoetryjourneydec17