"The Rebellion"

I live somewhere between
The margins
Of a page
That has not been opened
For years.

Yellowed, but crisp
Like March sunshine
When it has freshly arrived
From the doors of
A mellow February
After going through
An icy January.

I am that word
That you marked with a small dot
Of your pencil.
Looked up a dictionary perhaps
But never bothered
To unsolve me for myself.
An unwritten meaning.

And like the countless frail flowers
That take March to April
I smile at every passerby
Just to fade the next morning
To be remembered,
If at all,
In the next spring.

I blotted the skin of paper.
Stabbed through its heart.
Dying to see myself etched
To be with thousands others
Fixed on a spot in a line.
A word
That now stands alone
Confused.

Like May, that is neither June nor April.
Roses are scarce
May always draws some blood.
Which June shares,
And July, washes.

I smell old
Ageless though
I wonder if you remember the time
When you laid eyes on me.
Ablaze,
Sultry.
Like August in the continent
Then mellowed
As September just announced its arrival.

I have the marks of a leaf
That you left
When you embraced me.
Tainted. Like my page.
I put my head upon
A misplaced bookmark
And rest.

I dream of an October
Red like Hibiscus
White like grass flowers.

I sit
Unmoved
Feeling your hands
Within my folds.

As November melts into December
And chilled winds try to
Enter the sealed room
I never flutter.
I never let the winds touch me.
And yet,
As I long for the moment you decipher me
Read me aloud
Touching me with you lips...
I also long
For the breeze
To be violent
Knocking me off my
Feigned sanity
And the pretense of order.
As I sleep
In a cover
That says
"The Rebellion".

Saba