The touch of paper against my skin,

Smooth,

A ghost of the varnished table or wooden door you could have been.

Instead you're here beneath my fingers,

Waiting,

Ready to save my thoughts upon your sheets.

Even when my memory fades the ink still lingers.

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Quickly the ink spreads, running across the pages.

Making sense within their lines, keeping records through the ages.

Each dotted line and scratched out cross as important as the other,

To fill the tomes with thoughts and dreams, from cover through to cover.

Entire lives and moments can be caught and stored within these bindings,

Academics throughout time had a way to save their fin...

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