Nov 2013
I know it sounds silly,
But I can't waste this book.
It doesn't feel like other books.
I know that is because you love it.
It doesn't feel like it's made of paper,
It feels like it's made of thin, thin glass.
I hold it like it's precious.
Something feels different about its pages.
They are creamy white and smooth,
And I think that to dog-ear these pages would be a crime.
I know it's silly.
I know it's crazy, actually.
But I can't just devour this book in a night the way I do all others.
Once I reach the end...
I will have reached the end-
I'll have no more pages of your favorite book to read for the first time.
I opened the cover as if light would pour out-
Slow, and careful-
And it might have, I'm not entirely sure.
I'm oddly nervous to travel the lines of this book,
To lose myself in it.
I know I'll be talking to you in the margins.
I know I'll feel insane for it,
And I know I'll do it anyway, in neat pencil,
Because I won't be able to help wondering
What did she think when she read this sentence?
What did she get from this passage?
I wonder if, like me, when you open a well loved book
You feel the impression of wherever you were
The first time you read it.
I wonder where you were
The first time you opened this book.
And I am apprehensive to open it myself-
What if I open it in the wrong place,
At the wrong time?
I'll never get the chance to read it first
Ever again.
Its pages are velvety, and their color is like soft whipped cream.
It's only a book.
But it's not.
It's one of the only things I know about you
And it's in my hands
And
What if I break it?
What if I **** it up?
What if I squander it and then
I'll never have it back?
And maybe it's
Just a book,
Yeah.
But when I touch it I feel closer to you
And a mere book
Has never had that kind of power over me before,
And I'm a little afraid
Of this book.
And I am afraid
That once I've read every word,
And my thirst for knowledge has sped the pages by
Like sand slipping through an hourglass,
I'm afraid that I'll love you even more
Than I already do.
And
Who knows what will happen then?
But I can't waste this book.
It doesn't feel like other books.
I know that is because you love it.
It doesn't feel like it's made of paper,
It feels like it's made of thin, thin glass.
I hold it like it's precious.
Something feels different about its pages.
They are creamy white and smooth,
And I think that to dog-ear these pages would be a crime.
I know it's silly.
I know it's crazy, actually.
But I can't just devour this book in a night the way I do all others.
Once I reach the end...
I will have reached the end-
I'll have no more pages of your favorite book to read for the first time.
I opened the cover as if light would pour out-
Slow, and careful-
And it might have, I'm not entirely sure.
I'm oddly nervous to travel the lines of this book,
To lose myself in it.
I know I'll be talking to you in the margins.
I know I'll feel insane for it,
And I know I'll do it anyway, in neat pencil,
Because I won't be able to help wondering
What did she think when she read this sentence?
What did she get from this passage?
I wonder if, like me, when you open a well loved book
You feel the impression of wherever you were
The first time you read it.
I wonder where you were
The first time you opened this book.
And I am apprehensive to open it myself-
What if I open it in the wrong place,
At the wrong time?
I'll never get the chance to read it first
Ever again.
Its pages are velvety, and their color is like soft whipped cream.
It's only a book.
But it's not.
It's one of the only things I know about you
And it's in my hands
And
What if I break it?
What if I **** it up?
What if I squander it and then
I'll never have it back?
And maybe it's
Just a book,
Yeah.
But when I touch it I feel closer to you
And a mere book
Has never had that kind of power over me before,
And I'm a little afraid
Of this book.
And I am afraid
That once I've read every word,
And my thirst for knowledge has sped the pages by
Like sand slipping through an hourglass,
I'm afraid that I'll love you even more
Than I already do.
And
Who knows what will happen then?
