I had my first heartbreak
As a thirteen year old,
When I read chapter thirty of
The old book I found on my shelf.
I cried myself to sleep,
Dreaming of the wonderful days
I spent in each chapter, before,
Rereading them to heal the wound
And to relive them for a moment.
I mourned death for the first time
When the husband died in the grief of
A stillborn child and stress of bankruptcy;
I grasped onto the leather cover,
Holding on for dear life,
Rocking myself to soothe the heartache
Until I exhausted my emotions
And moved onto the next chapter.
I fell head over heels for the man,
From the coffee shop that existed
In an era in which I was unborn.
And I felt him provide respite
From the ocean of chaos
In which I was not drowning.
He made my cheeks flush,
And sent shivers down my spine
As I stroked each page,
Imagining it to be his hands.
I encountered loyalty and betrayal
As I fought wars that had ended
And saved survivors that had died.
I remember, I closed my eyes
And I saw blood all around,
With courageous, gallant youths
Scattered around like red pebbles.
I startled every time I heard footsteps
Coming from behind me,
And reached for the sheath that I had not,
Every time I felt vulnerable to attack.
I laughed and I cried, I slept and I wept,
I was a martyr and a survivor,
I investigated and I escaped.
I was a chameleon of people.
For whoever said
That dreams ended with childhood
Was a foolish man,
Who had never held a book.