I want to walk amongst you, the many shelves and shelves of you. Bookstore or library. Doesn’t matter which.
I want to write you and read you and hold you in my hand. I want to flip through you, feeling your pages slide through my fingers.
Hard-cover. Paperback. I love you both.
I want to disappear behind stacks and stacks of you. I want to live among your silent stories, stories which come alive when read.
I want to vanish into you, to go on the adventures you hold.
I want to book a trip, a hotel, in Hawaii or San Fransisco or Iceland or New Zealand. On a beach somewhere, I want to read a book as the waves come rolling in and back out again.
I want to read with my eyes, but I settle for reading you with my fingers or else I must listen to audio books instead.
I want to write my own version of you. I will do some day.
Books. Glorious books. I open one and, yes, I rest it against my face, taking in the scent of so many past memories. The pages of you hold so much, everything I love about you.
with my favourite word
And, in honour of getting this post in at the last hour of Saturday and nearing the start of
I end this post with a classic (50 years old):