There I am sitting patiently on the coffee table, side table, book shelf, floor, anywhere I am left. I await to be held, to be read again. Curled pages on my ends let me know I am loved.
The ripped pages and cracked spine let me know I have been read and enjoyed. I watch the reader as their eyes scan the pages.
Reading each word and taking them into their hearts, their minds, their souls. My pages are complete with lessons, memories, and lives.
They may be fiction but they are still wonderful stories to be told. The reader holds me with one hand as their other is occupied by a hot steaming cup of tea.
Their hair loose in a bun and their groggy eyes tired from an entire night of reading. I relax. I know I am lucky, blessed even to be where I am. To be loved as I am. To be appreciated as I am.
There are countless books that are burned, torn apart, thrown away, drowned in cold cold water for the one who holds them just wants to be cruel.
There are books being burned solely because of the author's nationality. There are books who do not get to be as loved as I am.
There are books with stories in them that never get the chance to be read.
There are books that are not so lucky as I am.