One book, old and falling apart,

Pieces of worn out tape pasted on the spine.

The fourth chapter sticks out slightly.

The pages, now a worn, dusty brown,

Are held together by my love.

Sitting at the top of my bookshelf,

It is door waiting to be opened:

Filled with memories and adventures that aren’t mine,

With my friends that I cannot keep,

With curiosity and excitement imprinted in its pages the first time I read it.

Pages are thin and delicate,

Like a falling feather;

And the almost broken binding,

A chipped china tea cup,

That could shatter if held too tightly.

Stories and characters,

As dear to me as any in the real world:

A collection of moments,

That I get to hold in my very hands.