I carry a notebook around,

With dog-eared pages

Of tales I’d write every night,

Of one’s I’ll tell you

When I see you next.

My relationship with the

Pretty pink book has thickened;

It’s been a while,

Since I last saw you.

Maybe you’ve been lost, in all this translation,

Or maybe, my book and I have

Developed a bond.

These stories long for you,

And I ache for you.

Come find me,

In the pages, which may have

Now gathered dust.

Come, unmark these pages,

And read the stories you’ve been away from.

I will revisit them with you,

And travel back in time;

Narrate in excitement of the time

That whisked by.

Come find me, and read the stories out loud.

The book longs for you, and so do I.