Dust upon the old book.
A silken ribbon marking a page,
to which handwritten words professed heart,
in calligrapher's pen,
in a forgotten age.
Each page fragile.
A leaf nearing the end of Autumn, crisp and breaking.
A tired and worn binding of soft leather,
tied to give it strength,
in the making.
Each word soft.
Emotions long held in devoted feeling.
A soul, now still holding a soul,
as each word composed in thought,
in the healing.
Such a book, of how the emotion travels,
carried through years somehow finding its way,
into another's heart,
in the concept of present day.
Upon the shelf, the book placed,
within reach, a reference to guide,
and long after,
a soul, still holding a soul,
will pass it forth,
as the truest of loves, has never died.