The book of our rhymes

Somewhere there is a book
lost elsewhere so we would never look.
Yellowed parchment the color of sunsets and kisses
words the shape of lullabies in foreign tongues
and the floaty things you see when you close your eyes.
Where the ink smells of rain and lost love
and the letters form the shapes of pretty melodies intertwined like lovers.

the book is as different as he who reads it.
Emotional tripwires,
and hungover memories,
the undying need to scream,
spring tinged laughter,
tunes yet unwritten
and lovers` talk
and heartbroken poems;
but it's none of those,
and of course
nothing else either.
Pages of waking dreams
with ever-changing hues
as fickle as a smile.

The book is everyone who takes a peek
and some who stop at the cover.
It's the dog ears
and the kaleidoscope bookmarks
at seemingly unimportant pages
and underlined words and illegible
footnotes. Footnotes are important.
It's the time spent reading it,
the tears and crumbs across its folds.

Don't you get it yet?
A dream along a mobius strip
is where it ought to begin.
And so,
it'll never again end
between you and the
six degrees of separation
from the last song ever sung.

Oh, and the book has no index
just in case you were wondering.
Get your own.