Put me in your page.
Then I’ll grow grey with age.
I’m your bookmark.
Drop me on the floor.
That’s o.k., you got lots more.
I’m your bookmark.
Sometimes I’m substituted
for one more fitting to the theme.
I know that I’ll come back,
though laying in a stack.
Because caressing pages is my dream.
Give me dogged ears
that droop more through the years.
I’m your bookmark.
When I’m on your shelf,
I’m my better self.
I’m your bookmark.