I am open, said a book one day.
One that you are welcome to read.
Walking away won’t change my words
Only that what you can see.
I am not a choice, it said
But one half of two.
I am whole, only with the stories inside
A sum of many pages, not just a few.
The glossy illustrations are distracting perhaps
The language too complex for your taste
Perhaps my saga is not your type
Or you found another, much simpler to read.
Move on to greener pastures, said the book.
If you cannot see –
Past the binding, the pages or through the words within
Or read the story that is me.
Yet came a slow demise to the book,
to the conversation, the possibility to be read.
As you placed the book under loud thundering skies
Drenched, cold and wet – left it out for dead.
The wrinkles on my pages will stay, said the book.
Its binding may loosen over time.
But the pages will hold the same stories still.
Though damaged and old, its stories will still be mine.