Their digital editions are no match for your yellowed pages, your faded ink
The real story is the one not written
I am reading more than the words themselves
It is the one in the scents
That distinct aroma when you crack open the spine
To your dog-eared corners, you’re questionable creases
Years ago, this page was found worthy of permanently remembering
The quotes underlines, the words circles
To the scholars who have come before me
Who studied and studies and studied this exact same copy
To whose dismay, they each left a little bit to you
A mark on you
To the students who were terrified to ruin you
So they read you carefully, like a piece of fruit, worried you might bruise if their grip was too aggressive
Little did they know, you left a mark on them
To the reader, years ago, who took you out for the first time
Back when you were one of the young guys
Part of that special list titles “new arrivals”
To the librarian who threatened
If you break it, you pay for it
I wonder what they would say if they saw you in this condition
Which is not to say you are ruins, just aged
Not broken, just marked
Isn’t that the greatest paradox, that you seemed perfect then
With your sleek covers
Your barely marked paper
And you are better now
Now with this disheveled exterior
With your aged attitude
Your wiser demeanor
You, reminder that there is something special about eye contact
To the people that distinguish you from e-readers as “the real thing”
Isn’t it miraculous that we read the same text, yet receive different stories from the mode
We are interacting with you
The characters
The storyline
Copy and archive
Fax and scan
Are no match for your softened pages
So, thank you to all that have come before me
For raising him well, for leaving your mark
For trying, and failing, to keeping him just the way you found him
So that I can read him
And see more than
A Book
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