Age of Paper
Passed through one hand to another, messages written and re-written.
Scratch marks become less dense, scars become pale.
The ink one day is not wet and new, but faded.
The parchment growing thin right before your eyes.
When you hold it up to the light you can see the flame burning on the other side.
Almost from within.
It burns and burns, but the paper grows ever more thin.
Ever more thin.
The vibrancy and elasticity of that fresh new paper grows frail, weathered at the edges.
The enticing smell of hot off the press grows grey and dull.
The message remains, it still remains.
Strong but softer now.
Tired but present, ever present.
Pieces of edge crumble and disappear into the dark corners.
Pretty, swirling ink.
Dancing, curling ink.
Quiet, loud ink.
Softly shuttered ink.
Fingers brush across tissue tender, gentle now.
Try to see the flame once more, but it's gone now.
