A Story Untold

I'm an open book,

But it's short.

I hovered over the doorbell yesterday,

When the sky was golden,

And the air wasn't too hot or too cold.

There was a dog,

Chasing bubbles

In the neighbor's yard.

The perfect day

To ask you to flip open my cover.

To bring my pages to your nose,

And smell how much they've aged

Since the last reader visited.

To feel the dust that coats page thirty-nine,

So thick,

You could trace a line in it.

No one's made it there before,

But I would be honored to share it

With you.

If it makes me desperate,

I don't mind--

Even if it makes me shudder.

I've spent too much time waiting,

Shelved and ignored,

To be embarrassed about begging.

Yet my edges trembled,

On your doorstep,

In a breeze that swept in,

That convinced me to blow away,

Never to be touched or explored,

As you trace every line,

Every word,

Every letter.

It has always been my bane,

To writhe and weep,

For that connection,

Unable to ask for it.

That tug,

A twined rope,

Stretching from your racing heart,

To the center of my story,

As you uncover more plot twists,

And discover my history

With raw hunger and adoration.

But this world does not exist,

In which your every inhale

Lifts every evident spec of neglect

From the unspoiled paper

Past page thirty-nine.

The world that is reality:

Rich with beauty,

Skin soft and sinless,

Eyes of honey

Like caramel dripping

On a sunset-lit canvas,

And delicate freckles to kiss underneath,

Is void of my description--

A synopsis not worth purchase

Or even donation.

The story is not interesting;

It won't hypnotize you

Or make you feel entranced between the lines.

But I promise,

On the last of my withering ink

Which is crumbling away

With each hopeless day,

If you'd just open the door,

If someone would open the door,

I'd make it worth the read.