They are the only ones who see me. I am the only one who has understood them. 100 worn books with worn pages and worn covers softened by affection and use. 100 who fit snugly on my shelf, in my hands. 100 handpicked from the store,familiar covers like friends. From beneath my covers I spot them, but I know I can’t read all day.
Their secrets are my thrill. They light sparks inside my veins when I feel empty. They wrap words around me, their pages tickle my fingers, and when the world is numb they make me smile again. This is how they see.
Let one forget the outside world, I have 100 more sitting on the shelf, crooked and crannied in. See, see, see. Like braille, the books see me. This is how I understand.
When I am too tricked and too tired, when the days don’t seem to come, that is when I am seen. When there is nothing and no one at home. 100 whose pages are worn like soft cotton. 100 who have made me cry but never forget to make me smile. 100 who’s only reason is to see, after only being seen.