Most books I've lost or destroyed. Only a few always remain by my side.
If any books last, they’re full of coffee stains, small folds, worn-out pages.
Time spent scrolling libraries - shiny covers, loud titles posing for attention. I see their beauty, but none caress my soul.
I know the moment when it happens. I’ve read similar first chapters once before.
The first page - lightning bolt, mental spotlight, my heart whispering: nothing else matters.
But every page I turned, I feared all I love could vanish within just a few words.
Stories progress - and so their characters too. I struggled to keep up, to grow with you.
I wish I kept reading. I was frightened by your clean slate - no visible scars to match mine.
I was afraid to be misunderstood, to be a burden. You never knew what it’s like to have all you care for blown up like fireworks on a sad New Year’s Eve.
I expected too much, hoping you’d see dried up waterfalls behind my stage light smile.
Years passed. I’ve grown. I think I’m ready to read again.
I hope you’re there, somewhere, looking for me. Know that I too search for you.
Show your torn-down soul wherever you express.
Tell the whole world how you defied cold ravines, silent nights.
Lay breadcrumbs along your path of self-destruction.
Trust in me seeing you as you drag yourself along.
Let’s rebuild our lives together, with worn-out tools.