To the Book I’ve Read Fifteen Times

I found this while surfing on WordPress. It is delightful. It is how I feel. And if you love books as much as I do, it’s how you feel, too.


Dearest story, with yellowing bent pages

you sit, a tired old man, on the brink

of my bookshelf.

You want to jump, I can tell.

You’ve been read dry.

Borrowed and returned,

pulled by unfamiliar hands,

dog-eared and tattered,

you show my inner damage.

With your words, you

made me new –

with your ending,

made me old again.

How many lifetimes have I spent

rattling around in your skeleton?

Not nearly enough.

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