Where was I when you found me?

Did I call out to your sense of inner desire to see… what am I to you?

If but a collection of thoughts, memories and dreams… I must ask… did you read them merely see them… though the words could only come from my lips…

Did you read between the lines of the sentences spoken to take in what I was saying to you… to see and observe not only that there was information being communicated but also that it was being shared… did you touch me or hold me… did I captivate you… I want to speak but my conviction to simply stare at you is so complex that speech is not necessary… you will see what I wish to know… what wish to say in my eyes…

how does that feel… are you touched… Will you remember me, or will I be forgotten… or forbidden… the very memory of me has no essence unless rooted to a part of you…

what am I… flip through my moments… share them back with me… refer to me in old age… for I am but an open book… with space for notes… and pages to begin new chapters.