1928

Old worn pages.
I love feeling swallowed by this pile of books around me.
I love the way this one feels in my hands.
I adore the way that one smells when I hold it close to me.
I like to gaze at the cover of those.

The binding is beaten, and the green long faded.
There is no title.
The pleasure of running my fingers over the cover before flipping it open makes me smile.
In 1928, Someone's heart was broken.
The old, faded pencil out lines "Love Infinite".
I read it now, and understand their pain.
The longer you flip through, the more prose you see marked.
All of it about love, heartache, loss.

Against my better judgement, I opened his composition book.
I flip through some pages of teenage, angst-filled poetry.
I have read alot of this before just as I have written my own share of it way back when.
Somewhere in the center of the notebook, something catches my eye.
"Dear Shannon....this was meant to be a poem....".
I know perhaps I shouldn't finish reading it.
I know I should set his book back in its place, and leave it be.
At the end of the letter meant to be a poem, I sit here crying.
What happened? It is so obvious he no longer feels that way.
Even if he still believed every word he had written five years ago, I am afraid finding this is too little, too late.
Just as in 1928, here..now..., someone's heart is broken.

The small, white cover is comforting.
I remember when I was done reading this book, I knew that it was okay to be my crazy, broken self.
The character made no sense, and he barely knew right from wrong.
He was the demon lying inside us all.
The man who doesn't care, and is free.
So much time has passed since I first cracked it open.
I have two copies; the reason why is a long story.

The brown leather makes me smile.
So many secrets inside it.
So much stuff written about you, actually.
It's my new confidente, aside from my heart holder ofcourse.
It is what I use when you are not around.
It is the thing that hears me first, before I even think of typing it out here.
I started using it not long before all this craziness started.
It is quite a gift.
I tuck it away, hiding it.
Now I just hide the book, not my emotions.
Thanks.