I sit upon these shelves`` dusty and dreary
Alongside old stories, mysteries, and fables.
I sit amongst these leather bound and paperbacks suffocating
My cover replaced and my spine undamaged but my pages, well my pages tell the tale.
My pages turned roughly a thousand times but a thousand more to come
They lay permanently dog eared and annotated from inspirations sought.
Only to be returned to the shelf below until the next reader comes along thirsting for the distraction,
distraction from their own misery and haunting demons.
Thirsting for a reason, relation, an escape.
More footnotes and foot prints left behind wearing me further away as my bones are dissected and analyzed.
Until every paragraph, until every line until every word has been looked at forwards backwards and upside down but the only thing found on their fine tooth comb is the fibers from which there very own pockets have woven.
Then, like so many times before, I'm placed back on the shelves, a little lower and now I sit below the populous,
below the popular.
Why such fads should take up so much shelf space I dare not ask.
Is it to be my final resting place down here I dare not think.
My cover will grow stale and stick to preface from settling moisture in the air.
My pages will yellow and my bold black print will lose the battle with memories.
Few lookers have passed and paused at me. Fingering through my delicate pages skipping past the artwork looking for what I am not quite sure.
They place me back and dust themselves off then swiftly snatch up a newer bolder kind of love.
Then, just when I thought my placement on this shelf was worth no more than a magazine stand someone stops at my index number and looks adoringly towards my dusty spine.
She picks me up and gently wipes away the dust and the slight moisture forming at the bottom of my embossed title.
She opens my cover with such delicacy and attention that I relax like never before.
My pages turn with a peaceful breeze singing along with my words.
So she stops herself from reading any further as not to spoil the adventure , and packs me up carefully.
When I awake, I find myself as if on display, on display for the whole world to see.
See my restored pages and touched up ink like the first edition as it reads inside my cover.
She reads me every night and every night she wants the next chapter.
And the next chapter only comes too soon and she wants another, and another.
It would seem that the book she chose grows with her every day and every night.
Stories of adventure, tales of love, and manic mysteries to be solved by her.