Lost in translation

“The quiet sense of something lost” 
― Alfred Tennyson

I’m lost in the translation 

wandering between the pages of  a book

hiding between the folds

and sitting under a neatly folded

dog-eared page

waiting to be pulled

I’m surrounded by the pages 

of my life 

and left behind in the

stories untold

that old shattered spine

of that dusty book

mirrors my life

I fervently crave for that 

intense fresh smell

we usually find 

in the binds of book

so new

so naive

I crave for that smell

which lingers on my breath

and gushes the memories of life

I rushed to forget

I’m lost in the folds

and the missing pages

where my story took a break

and can be found 

in those missing traces

That blotch of the ink

like a stain on my soul

hides the very essence of my life

devoured it whole

I’m lost in the translation

wandering between the pages

I have been sitting on the ledge 

of that old dusty shelf

too long

waiting to be picked 

and be smelled again.

Photo by Laura Kapfer on Unsplash