You have opened my pages in hopes to escape from the world you live in, but I would give the world to enter it with you. Though it be true, I may be your escape from reality, I wish you could be mine.
I've been passed down library to library, shelf to wardrobe. Hands upon hands have grazed my spine, turned my pages, read the words marked in me. They loved nothing but a story. I've seen it all; watching as their lives play out in front of me as I observe from their old, dust coated shelves. I've done it all; been left to dust, sold at garage sales, used for book reports. No one stays for too long...is this all to be of my destiny?
But I can't help but feel a change when you softly turn the withered and wrinkled pages of mine- When you mutter the words of my story quietly, barely able to keep your eyes open when you notice the sun begin to rise and the beginning of mellow singing of songbirds- the worlds alarm. But for me, nothing but noises that bring me back to reality, dreading the thought of you leaving me to live your repetitive life that day. Day by day, my anger at the universe grows- angry at life and how it parts us through our life forms.
