Better Company

The pages crisp, white, newly-printed. Pressed
safely side by side.
Silent companions.
Colored covers with obscure titles and coy pen names.

I prefer the company of older voices.
Those of Thomas Moore, Jane Austen, Bram Stoker.
Echos of the past that resonate some fractal for of fate.
Lives lived and lives forgotten.

Late nights, early mornings.
Fingers bruised with the tattoos of graphite and colored highlighter.
Writing my own words hidden in the faded pages
Mingling age old insight with those of a woman finding her way back to her own skin.

My favorites are dog-eared, diet coke stained, scribblings
scrunched in the margins. Dusted and smelling of ink, old, pool chlorine

I prefer the company of books. Less hurtful more complicated.

Just rough plots and sharp edges.