I left a bookmark there,
on page number 102.
And few ages hence
resume, from where I left,
after dusting the book, page 102.
The pages bleadhed, 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…!