Hollow

thin, whispering

tap against your palms

quiet writing inside

secret message, words faded

wilting, ink

sapped of strength.

You gave me stars

folded galaxies,

celestial, small, sedentary

kept in a jar, dim, frosted

lid dented with time.

It wears a coat of dust

like a woman

wears pearls;

precious, heirloom aged.

I think of you

when I run my fingers

along

the misty creases, cut, greying

across the paper

through the sentences.

A smile comes to my face:

a desert

dry,

desolate,

remembering the taste

of rain.