She smelled of books and stories, 
Of all the worlds she'd lived within, 
As though the ink had left the pages, 
To find a new home in her skin, 
She didn't quite belong here, 
Lived a life within her head, 
Like she'd slipped out from the covers, 
Of a paperback instead, 
And you'd see it in her eyes 
That they were deeper than a well, 
She was a whole library of stories, 
That we'd beg for her to tell, 
When she spoke the world would listen, 
To the adventures of her mind, 
For if there's such thing as magic, 
Then it was something she could find, 
And her heart had looked much further, 
Then her eyes had ever seen, 
She'd walked on words to places, 
Her two feet had never been, 
It's years now since she moved, 
And we all failed to keep in touch, 
So her memory's all faded, 
Like a book, you've read too much, 
But if she hoped to leave us ink-stained, 
She should know she did succeed, 
For even know we all still looked for her, 
In every book, we read. 
-e.h