Old Book

I’m like an old book.

One that a curious reader finds abandoned deep within an ancient library

Or on the shelves of a second hand shop

I am worn, years of use apparent by the bend of my spine

And the marks on my sleeve.

Every one that happens upon me does the same thing. Flip me over to inspect my body.

Delicate and gentle fingers open me up and if I’m good enough, if they like what they see, they will undress me.

It’s only once they’re enraptured by my story do they realize that I’m unraveling at the seams.

Pages are not as secure as once believed
The marks aren’t just on the outside but on the inside too

They don’t take away from the story but they can be distracting to the unprepared.

That’s what attracts them, though. Surely, such an overly read, used book must be worth the read, regardless of how fragile it is

Right?

Good enough to read over and over and over and over and over

But never to be kept forever.

My home on your shelves is temporary once you’re done with my story

And as most old books are, I am too much. Too big to be practical, too damaged to be repaired. Too far gone to maintain.

So I’m given away, to wait to be picked up again.

New wear and tear to pull in the next set of wandering eyes.