First to be forgotten

I stay in the gutter,

were the pages are pressed —

holding the book together. 

Never being seen. 

I am the leaf 

spilt to make room for others, 

creased by hands that turn past me —

never stopping to notice what opens the story above.

On the recto 

the words feel uneven, 

odd against the weight of the book. 

The verso stays across from me the whole time 

and who is to say just because they’re even

 doesn't mean they’re steady.

My corners bend,

dog-eared from being useful. 

From saving a place you will never return. 

You spread my pages and don't think twice. 

Pulling my gutter splits me like a knife —

the force that bounds me together and keeps me whole.

First to be touched.

First to be forgotten. 

Standing guard at the begging 

proof that what's over looked 

still holds everything together.