I want to be her favorite book…
Heavily annotated with all of her thoughts,
Observations, and inquiries about the reason behind my chosen scripture;
Pondering the purpose of my creation.
My heftiness weighted by both voluminous life chapters
And the age of my years since my story was birthed into print.
My heart beats softly like a page flutter.
I just hope that she finds me to be quite the page turner.
Please don’t put me down, the best part has yet to come.
She makes creases in pages that she wants to revisit
Or to remind herself of where she left off until her next read.
I don’t mind, for the one who picked me up before
didn’t make it past the preface before she me to the top shelf and left me to be Imprisoned by neglect.
Overbearing dust particles as my guards, smothering me,
Assuring that I’d never be freed.
I’d rather live pages wrinkled,
Liberated by an avid reader’s creases than to be a pressed novel.
All of the unpredictable twists and turns of my plot
And sudden shifts in tone keep her intrigued,
Coming back consistently for the next read. She is not repelled
By my small print and lack of pictures.
Words are her artistry, and she paints vivid visuals with my script
Perfectly depicting what I say as to accommodate earless eyes.
She even finds beauty in my heartache.
Her sodium-rich tears beat against the pages of the darkest chapters of my life.
Salty tears may produce page wear and ink smears,
But aesthetic damage doesn’t compromise my story’s character.
Rather than put me down, she clutches me tighter.
As if to comfort me from the pain of my history,
Internalizing my distress just so I won’t feel alone.
She reads on with fervor because she is wise enough to know that
Sufferance crafts the best stories.
I want her to love me just as much as I love to be read by her.
Though my pages retain copious amounts of plight, tragic scenes, and dramatic downfalls, my theme does not cater to a specific genre.
She treats me as one of the highly acclaimed.
There’s not a ‘Best Seller List’ that does my worth justice.
I do not boast flawless executions of literary devices nor
Is my chosen vernacular the symptom of an elocutionary disorder;
Prone to clear, concise, and socially accepted speech.
I simply interpret what I mean and that has earned me status,
nestled between Sir Everett and Mr. Ellison.
Let them be the only men who command her attention outside of me.
The spine which keeps me bounded stands much straighter
Given my status amongst all others.
My purpose isn’t for a peruser’s critique, instead she reads me for her leisure.
We digress after endless days, hours of study until she drifts off to dream,
With me left lying on her chest my crinkled pages being soothed by the pulsing lullaby that is sung from within her bosom.
Take me with you wherever you go seek refuge between my sheets.
If I should ever begin to unbind, I pray that you love me enough
To put me back together.
For her, I want to be so much more than just a good read.