Filled Pages

He is weathered and old; you make him,

aging with lessons learned.

Mistakes made.

He tells the story of coffee shops,

Crumbs obscuring his closure,

left behind in careless indifference.

He smells like time passed,

grilled cheeses, different shampoos,

passions in constant change.

He sounds like the quiet night,

The moon's bowl filled with cheers and pleas,

silent as the rhythmic scraping.

He looks as countless people who wrote,

Differing everyday;  or so he thinks.

But he is me in slivers.