Scribbles

She is a handful

of scribbled pages

in the back of a borrowed book

Ruffled and frayed

the places she tore

herself

away

Dramas of her haunting narrative

nothing more

than sepia-stained

memoirs,

crumbled petals

her mother's flora,

old photographs

of smiles long forgotten

She is no stranger

to the stale smell of yesterday,

nor the dimples of fresh parchment

underneath parched fingertips