don't you dare put me back on that bookshelf because you've decided that you may not want me now, but you just might pick me out again someday. i am vintage, something you should press lovingly to your lips. but to me that dream seems to be ephemeral at best. yes, my words are old and my pages tea-stained, but doesn't that make me beautiful? yes, my edges are worn and torn and frayed, but doesn't that mean to treat me with delicacy? and yes, darling, i am falling apart at the seams, but doesn't that mean you should be there to take care of me? and not just throw me aside and break me at my spine just because you think i'm useless. no matter how many times i'd think to waste my words on you, someone else will gladly be able to discover them somewhere, someday. i will captivate his eyes with each page, each letter, each jumbled together in haste to make art in black and white. and yes, someone will cherish me and hold me near and dear. and if that someone isn't be you, please give me away to someone who will.