Un-Inscribed

Matter, we think of it like clumps
of soil rolling between our
Fingers. Not word on the page.
Words aren’t edible, grabbable,
Sniffable, sctachable.
But haven’t they ever gotten between your nails?
Kept you going until the first cold sun of April?
Could matter be a inky character,
Who commuted with you each day?
Or the friends convened on page,
In the cafe, clutching your attention so tightly
That you tried to bite into your latte?
Why gift a book,
If you’re not going to scratching your name
Against the carcus?
Tell me what it is I’m about to feel.
Tell my why this matters,
“Here, have some old friends mine’.