When I was a little girl I found myself in books.
I still find solace when surrounded by particularly cracked spines,
Embraced by the scent of ancient pages.
How could anything or anyone not matter
As long as there are books?
The wonder of life wrapped up in a small package of breakable binding
And fragile pages.
Even the structure of the wondrous things are metaphors.
People reach across time through them
To the millions of people who will read their words,
Cherish their thoughts.
I'll give you a piece of my soul.
I'll leave it between the lines.
I'll let it stretch as far as it can
Through the eternal march of time.