Wednesday, February 25, 2015

seventy-nine

You’re a book I annotated too carefully. I highlighted the adventures and sweet words, and wrote notes in the margins of what I thought it could all mean. I was diligent, in search of grand meaning or profound conclusion. But page after page, the novel of you turned to nothing more than shallow fiction. When I reached the back cover I found quotes from girls past, ones I couldn’t imagine existed, and before I knew it the story had ended and it was my turn to evaluate. 

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