I want to be an open book for someone who will press their face to the pages, trace the words with their fingers, will not leave me forgotten on a shelf. I want my binding to be worn, my words to be so well known they are almost memorized. I want my smell to invoke comfort, to demand to be read again and again.
I want to be held in someone’s hands, and be loved for every misspelling, every dogeared page, every tear, every sentence that doesn’t quite flow.
Melanie's Blog. Art, family, small farming, things that catch my eye.
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