He who thought she was made of words...

He who thought she was made of words
Finds a book the day they part.

Fresh, crisp pages
Like springtime leaves,
Without reminiscence
Or need for strings.

Not flesh, nor blood
No tears, no heart
Nerves, hormones,
Feelings, fears
Wasnt she words
Just endless words.

The scent of her body
Contours of soul
Her mind, those rooms
Her parts, her whole
Landscapes of distance
Troughs, and crests
Horizons he knew
Sunrises and sets
The crevices ... crevasse
And, the rest.

...

All felt and found
In one other page
Of a book, or a soul
He desired to take.

He who thought she was made of words...
Lost nothing ; the day he chose to part.