I look into your eyes, glistening with the tears of memories.

You speak of gold woven like silk.

A smile on your face, seeing a world I can only imagine.

The sadness creeps in and threatens to choke up your voice.

Where is she now? And where did she go?

So much I want to understand but could never begin to know.

 

Your walls shoot people down like the Red Baron on a rampage.

Only two have made it close to shooting down the plane.

Of the two only one went all the way,

But that was then, and this is now.

Confusion seeps into my head like a sponge taking up water.

Weighed down with no solution, it infects me like acrid pollution.

 

A stream unclean, having been mistreated.

I come with the urge but not with the knowledge.

Where can I go to solve the puzzle?

The book ponders and sits, pleasantly surprised at being taken off the shelf.

The spine opens up to reveal its bitter, sweet, kind, and curt words.

The book smiles quietly to itself.

 

The puzzle knows its pieces, but keeps them strewn about.

Only a few can put the pieces together.

The book sits with its small pile, silently begging for more.

The puzzle seems cautious, the book is confused.

Neither really know what to do.

A night of complexity, and surging electricity,

 

Is all it takes to make a poem a story.

The book tears out a few of its pages,

Holding the key to the puzzle's understanding.

The puzzle has some dark pieces that blend in with the night.

The book stumbles around trying to find them.

Both have fallen into a guessing game.

 

The book seems more worried, more confused and emotional.

The puzzle seems just how it is, aloof and under no control.

Where did the time go? The book ponders its words.

The puzzle grabs a pen, and starts to write on the empty pages.

The book thinks softly to itself, and berates itself when thoughts become words.

An interesting world these two live, with everything to offer, everything to give.

 

The book offers its pages to the puzzle, and the puzzle gladly accepts.

But the book can't help but feel like the puzzle has read more pages,

And the book has only put together a corner of a billion pieces.

"Where did the time go?" The book asks the puzzle.

"I don't know but we have plenty more of it ahead."

|Not always| thinks the book.

 

The puzzle reassures the book, but another thing draws near.

The puzzle has to leave, leaving the book in fear.

The book is afraid of being hurt again, it hasn't been picked up in so long.

And now that the puzzle is leaving, the book's reader will be gone.

The puzzle says it’s okay, I'm always here.

The book feels alone, and closes its covers.

 

The book opens back up though, because the puzzle isn't done.

The book sighs, and wonders when its time will come.

 

"Soon." Says the puzzle. "There's something special about you."

The book nods and keeps its thoughts to itself.

The puzzle leans on the book, and talks for a while.

The book wonders what it did to deserve a new friend.

 

The book starts to cry and the ink stars to run.

The puzzle tries to save the day, like a hero.

The book is weak, its pages are limp.

Life starts to shred the spine.

But everything will be alright, "In time."