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In the blurry narrative of the world

It’s good to see clearly what’s written before us

And a relief to find a magnified view

And a comfort to share a language.

Curled on a chair in the winter rain

We arrive without edit;

The only missteps are when we forget where we are

Which is bound to happen in the middle of long stories

With many chapters

And bookmarks made of flotsam and fit.

There are passages we must reread, of course

And words we must look up

And those we make up entirely,

But in all this precious history

We now hold

A rare edition in our careful hands;

Never published, without genre,

Without end,

We return again and again;

Each time another scribble added in the margin

A newfound emphasis

Here,

Or there.

We will not be found on the bestseller list

And the reviews are forever out;

But in the fresh ink

And fragile pages

We know every word of this

Co-authored heart