I'm stacked on the shelf with my other fellows, impatiently waiting for you to pick me. Your hands do the little dance it always does, when you are trying to choose which book to read. After some time, which seems like an eternity to me, you choose me, holding me lovingly in your strong hands. Your mouth twitches up in a smile as you look at me.
At this very moment, I dearly wish I had a mouth to smile back at you.
You carry me to your favourite coffee table, place me on the table mat beside the bookmark, and drift off to the kitchen to prepare a caffeine concoction. I wait, once again, for you to return. While I lie on the table, I wonder. How much do I matter to you? Do I make you happy? Make you feel a thousand of thundering thoughts rolling in your head?
I hope so, because I see your face lighting up, your eyes sparkling as you see me. Your eyes, though focused on me, are surely thinking about the interminable depths of my story. Do you really like me, or is it just my imagination?
I cannot tell anything to you, of course. I wish I could, though. The only thing I can give you is satisfaction, ranges of emotions, relaxation and peace of mind.
You return, and gently set down your cup of coffee on the table, hold me and start reading.
All this while, the only thing I can see is your face, ranging with emotions as you read line by line.
I've always adored you. If only I knew if I mattered as much as you matter to me.
A/N: I know, this is short, I intended it to be short. It's dedicated to all book lovers out there.
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YOU ARE READING
Histoires Courtes
General Fiction"Musings and stories of an ordinary girl, who's just trying to sum up her infinite stream of thoughts into small little miracles."
