I circle middle age
Like a bonfire – not a drain.
I buy my lovers at a scratch-and-dent sale,
Unique creases pressed into hearts
Like the flaking of a thrifted jacket.
We probe ragged holes in one another’s pockets,
and perhaps ask for discounts.
Finding one that fits, we rejoice in those racks of forgotten colors,
The textures of these softened ur-texts
Broken, broken-in, and irreplaceable.
Dull unblemished perfection smells like plastic packaging and fixatives,
But you have the vanilla smell of an old book.