The Book.

“I wish that my life story was a book in a building.
Something you could stretch your arm up to, and slip off of the top shelf. Your gentle caress dusting a stray cobweb from the wrinkled leather cover. Crisp pages seperate neatly, all the emotions and thoughts brushed onto the paper with a careful pen, stroke by stroke. I wish that I had an index, from which you could run your nail under your own name. Your teeth sinking into your lower lip in careful study. I wish that you might slip me into your back pocket, for safe keeping and to be kept close by. Ever so slowly my spine would bend over the years. My pages becoming well thumbed, the once insidiously sharp letter outlines being fuzzied and warmed with age. Until at last, I am so well read and so well learned that my own frail and tattered form no longer is needed...my soul being permanently entrenched in your memory and smiles.”

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