This book smells so redolent,
though the pages feel decayed.
It’s cover seems insolent,
frayed bromide paper displayed.

All, what I craved, lies inside
like a spurned lover in print
who was inked and crucified
by glossing over missed hints.

My trembling fingers caress
the words I cannot escape.
The vowels slowly undress
wound’s consonants, healing, named…

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & RY HAKARI
© All rights reserved 2015