WHERE I AM FOLDED, THERE I AM A LIE

A faded palimpsest stained with old words

a pool of ink erupting from the typewriter

lodged between my rib cage and my soul

It was not yours to read, but mine to share

the decision to fold precisely, corner to edge

for me to neatly tuck away, for no one to find

on the bookshelf,  between two battered spines

the space in between, that is yours and is mine.

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