Each time I try to put our book away,

You know, the one with all our memories,

An image catches my eye, and, captive, I look down to see

And tell myself, “This, I promise, is the last time.”

Each time I try to put our book away

I turn the pages slowly, trying to erase

With every fingered leaf the memories contained.

It hurts too much to go back, too much not to.

Each time I try to put our book away

I try to lose my place or hide it

Somewhere I’ll never find it again.

So I can leave the leaves of sorrow and pages of pain.

But each time I try to start a new book,

There it is, open on the bed, right where I left it,

Bookmark where I last wrenched my eyes away.

So every time I try to put our book away, I always start again.