i’m a black book, a walking journal, keeper of secrets…

i’m a black book, a walking journal, keeper of secrets, pleasure and pain.

you’re an open book, with life flipping your pages, back and forth, back and forth - making sure nothing is kept tucked, hiding in betweens.

i’m just a black book, just a walking journal, with my hands marking pages, never going so far.

you’re an open book, clothed in fancy sleeves, yet bare with ease, glued to hardbound.

i’m just a black book, just a walking journal, soft bound - in stitches, or tied with a ribbon, no comfort on letting loose, or letting go,

you’re an open book, available to be perused, no matter what topic, lain on tall shelves, intricate cases, or majestic rows.

and i’m just a black book, just a walking journal, vague, always on decode, tucked under a pillow case, hidden in a safe, yet offered no safety.