Dear Book

I am sorry, is how I shall begin.

I am sorry that I have abandoned you,

Not only loneliness weighing you down,

But the dirty snowfall of dust which hides your dull cover - your appearance used to be the most important part.

Pictures formed by eternal ink tattoo your previously soft, white skin,

now yellow from all those times you have been caressed by thousands of hands;

Only mine seem to have left a mark, scars for all to see,

A mark which even you cannot erase by the erosion of your life.

I am sorry, that I no longer open you up to be greeted by that new book smell,

Warm roses filling the air where there once was only a desert.

You now smell of defeat;

Cold sweat, mud, pain -

You have been through so much in your life,

But every new star in the sky distracted from the fresh waves of life your shores brought to me.

I never gave the attention you deserve.

I am sorry that water has crumpled your pages,

Crackling and popping with every flick of my fingers.

Moisture mending your thoughts shut with glue from your words,

painfully splitting apart like velcro with each new sentence found on the next page.

Thuds from your spine hitting the floor ring more often now, although we both travel deeper into a soundless abyss,

Where your voice no longer sings in your cage of purity.

I further away from every wish you whispered in my ear,

giving me inspiration to never grow up.

But, my dear old friend, it is not your fault I no longer pick you up.

Life has become too much:

A hurricane of love and loss,

Breaks and mends,

A story in its own;

My life has grown into its own complex plot, similar to yours, yet not even close.

Your universe cannot compare to mine,

A tiny planet with a population of one while my set of shoulders hold the entire world with no room for error.

Just know that all stories should have a happy ending, even if shaky, tired hands continue to unveil their plot.

But here is the truth:

Every time I see a little speck of dirt on your body, even in the darkest corners of my shelves,

I will always be satisfied to wipe off your tears.

Even if ages separate us, I will always enjoy your ancient book smell,

The smell of home and the smell of comfort -

The presence of an old friend who will never let me down.

The sound of your crisp pages, easier to turn than ever before as I have memorized your tender whispers by heart,

You will always have a place in my soul,

A deep place in my own book of life.

Even though we cannot spend as much time together as our differences have grown,

I know you will always be my shoulder to cry on,

My anchor from the real world,

My escape.

My true love, my dear favorite book.