you are a library of used books.

paperback spine.
you have a paperback spine.
it is creased with liquid white.
liquid moon.
i trace my piano fingers
to feel the used in the crevices.
the used is how the white came about.
the stories you've lived and told.
you wouldn't tell me that it was all
so painful.
but i've already read it.

your paperback spine.
there was bad.
and there was good.
you've seen colder winters than i,
warmer summers.
i've asked before if you regret
your paperback spine.
if it becomes unbearable to show
vulnerability as a color.
as the liquid moon drips
down down down.

you trembled in silence.
but you told me no,
you don't regret
your paperback spine.
because honesty
was what made the liquid moon
white on your back.
you were proud of that.
and i didn't ask anymore.