Book

I started with the chapter fresh as new,
seeing and then reading you.
Illustrations gravitated, acknowledgments given, 
I imagined your words and thoughts.

Everything that happens to you,
I write in your book.
Your smiles and eyes,
hardest ever to describe.

And like those seasons,
the changes so subtle, so beautiful.
Few years apart, the hue, the texture,
another verse, a new revelation.

And then you were a story in the making,
honest were certain encounters.
Conversation, contradictions, contemptuous,
my narrations insignificant and erronous.

So here we have an unruly moment where
I do not wish to read anymore.
And perhaps, you, my dear are no book
decidedly just a chapter in mine.