A slightly sensual love letter to Books.

It starts with the sound of our front-gate opening,
as I arch back to peek out of the rain speckled window,
I see the delivery boy walk up to ring the doorbell but,
I’m already standing at the door,
waiting, looking at his kind eyes and his kinder hands which hold you.

It’s half an hour later and I’ve already undressed you and
memorized your smell, the gritty texture of your inside against my finger
under the shiny orange cover and
I’ve been a bad girl and already read your last lines.

To all the books I ever read,
this is a love letter to you.

From the ones I bargained off of street peddlers to expensive first editions I never owned.
To my favorite book whose pages have come undone, covered with brown spots and filled in margins,
I looked up a 108 ways to put you back together.
To the first book I ever picked up by myself.
I’m so grateful to you for making me fall in love with words,
you were the perfect bad boy, leather jacket, quick wit kind of love for a naive me.

I ride on your prose, slowly intermingling myself through the lines,
sinking, deeper and deeper
as your whirlpool sucks me into the heart of your story.
Sometimes I try to mimic the lives you speak of,
wishing away the one I live in
for I would die comfortably as Gatsby than suffer the reality of my own random and insignificant existence.

To the books I always carry around,
you are the reason I go everywhere with a bag,
I learnt that I’ll be okay sitting alone in a crowd.
To all the books I never held,
your words, through the screen, jumped off just as high and you are the reason for the all-nighters I pulled on school nights and also probably why I have bad eyes.
To all the books I’ll never read, I hope to encounter you in another lifetime.

And, lastly to the ones who authored you,
Dear Ma’am, Sir, I paraphrase you during arguments and ‘2am under the night sky’ talks.
Thanks for making me sound smart.

I don’t read as much as I’d like to.
If I could that is all I’d ever do and I would live a 100 lives, maybe 200, maybe a 1000
but, there is only one I can truly and uniquely experience and that is my own.

To all the books I ever read,
I’ve absorbed many of your words and although they’re never enough,
they may be enough to start writing a beginning of my own.

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