Inkheart

I clutch a book-binder’s scissors in my palm
I think of Mo
I feel the leather, to put upon the spine
Leaning in, burying my nose between the pages
I inhale
I don’t know what comes next
After the dressing of the spine in the leather
Because I’m not a book-binder
Though Mo once was. Still is.
I’m a reader, dreaming about my bookshop.
Mo’s bookshop.

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