I left a bookmark there,
on page number 102.
And few ages hence,
I resume, from where I left,
after dusting the book, page 102.
The pages bleached, print lighter.
The text unchanged, unlike the reader.
After ages, I picked up
from where I left.
But through these ages,
I picked me up
from what people left of me,
when they left.
Who knew a bookmark
was meant to be the one constant,
while everything around changed?
Bookmarks, wallflowers, coffee cups...
what it takes to stay when the world doesn't?
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