gnarled and calloused hands,
worn by years of life
and picking up his children,
touch these pages
as though they were as delicate
as the petals of a rose.
they gently skate across those
letters, so carefully pressed
onto that once-was tree,
each of them congealing
into memories
that are faint, fading like
the daylight of the setting sun.
he takes a pen to
a page,
a reminder to himself
that there is something special,
an inadvertent
reminder to the person after him
that he was once alive
and he once loved
and felt
and cried
as i do now,
touching these pages
as the delicate petals
of a rose.
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