I hold the thing in my hands.
Solid smells sweetly of paper and dust.
I want to read it.
To open the pages and thumb to the poem waiting for me.
But this is the first time I will meet these words.
And it makes me a little sad that they won’t ever be fresh to me again.
A little nervous to make their acquaintance.
Will we hit it off right?
So I hesitate.
Is this the right moment to meet them?
Words don’t come into your life randomly.
They choose the time.
And it matters .
Their meaning might change if they come at the wrong moment.
And they might be misunderstood or
Even not heard.
Read, yes, but not seen.
Not really?
So they must be very careful
To jump at the right moment 
And so by hesitating 
I give them a chance to escape.
Right off the page.