I love to cradle books in my arms, and to feel the flurry of pages brush against my fingertips.
I love the soft bend of a well-worn spine, like laugh lines or gray hairs at the temple. It’s a love that’s endured time.
I love lining the books up on my shelves in whatever way I’ve decided to organize them this time.
I love coming across a line I’d missed the hundred previous times.
I love to flip through pages and pages to find the hidden gems I vaguely remember from last time.
I love the smell of the pages and the worn covers.
I love finding a favorite book with a new design, and judging which cover I like best.
I love coming to a section that’s too suspenseful for me, and flipping ahead to read a line or two, to make sure I can take it.
I love twists and surprises. I love well-planned revenge. I love good guys winning. I love unrequited crushes. I love last laughs.
I love poetic metaphors and rarely used words. I love nouns as verbs, and adjectives that add depth. I love plots I can see and taste and feel. I love people I’ll miss when I close the pages.
I love reading and writing.
I love books.