Bathing

The book lie in the water, face down, opened.
She picked it up as the soaked pages poured and dripped.
She had read this, her favorite, many times. It was not the first time it had been drenched from her bath.
The swollen words with their familiar dreams,
the story of comfort she would relinquish her solitude to when nothing else would hold her in an embrace,
the memorized texture of the written fabric, was again drowned and rescued
as were her silent yearnings.
In her experienced manner, she placed the book on the rack, draping over the rounded pipe, the crying pages of the open book. In a few days, she would remove it from there and allow a warm, ventilated area to finish the process.
Times before, she wondered why she did not just discard the mess and start with a new, bounded release.
She could not throw away her friend, the gift she had received, a treasured memory. She was not ready.She cannot.
I could not.

Raine Les 5/22/2008

a friend of mine, I'll call him sluvious wrote a poem once identical to mine, little did I know he was there all the time....

nice, we often place ourself in second person to understand the insanity of it all, see I told you your writing teaches.

I retrieved this from my archives, your piece brought it to mind.

A beautiful, thoughtful, and insightful read. I like the way you've woven the words and images together to allow your readers a glimpse into a private, meaningful experience. Well done!

thank you, welcome to the site,