I smell the book. The white one, the yellow one. They smell of ages, the smell of the time passed by.
I take the book with me beneath the sheets, hold it close to me, feel it breathe.
I hug it tight on nights I cry, on nights I laugh.
I find, the book, holding me when am broken.
I find, the book, rooting for my happiness –
That I should hold it close, that we kiss at our folds.
I escape, with the book.
You say, ‘They don’t live.’
But they do, for they die too. For the pages start to wither and fall when they grow pale.
‘But why do you wish me to be a book?’, you ask.
Because then, I can smell you. I can feel your breathing too.
I can hold you close, I can hug you tight – on nights I cry, on nights I laugh;
I can see you root for me, I can see you holding me.
‘I can do that as a human too’, you say.
‘You can. As a human, yes. But as a book?’
‘O! what more can a book do?’
‘Help me escape. Help me breathe. Help me find me in a place where I need you, a human, to call me taken.’
I breathe. I exist. I read.