Reading Reid Poem by Annie Jane

Thirty-two imperfect kisses march out across the very first page of a scattering
Of another lover's love letters.
A book which, read cover to well-loved cover in an hour or so,
Contains unimaginable sadness and unabridged despair,
But undeniable love, too, much like our own.

My Love, my bones, which are yours now, ache to read of such loss...
And I hope it's never us.
And, in avoiding pain, mirror love, and grow love, and keep love.
With you as my well-loved cover, you as each fragile page and printed line,
When thirty-two imperfect kisses perfect our life in literature.