I want to live in chapters. And flow. Flow like wine.
Filling my cups, running/ Streams. Cold weather and icy streams.
But, never stagnant. I will fold each page back and bend the spines.
There will be chapters reread, and favorites. Some, never revisited.
I want to smell celebration, the flipping of lavish pages.
Rough and smooth, some outlined. Yellow streaks across my favorite lines.
I want to exude knowledge, write a new language.
My chapters, my life, will restore themselves. Over time, new.
People will fuel themselves, perhaps change. People will place me on hold for weeks.
People will thirst to read what I have written.
I am a story. Twisted fiction, but genuine.
Shelved for only a time, then carried around in a worn pack. Read.
I want to live in chapters. I want to be set free.