Once upon a time, certain books I treasured were like the loves of my life; I breathed them in and tried to keep them close to me. I tried.
But like the seasons, things change with each turn of a page. And although they are perhaps still treasured — they are never quite the same again. There are many books/people I wish I could revisit and somehow read/experience again for the first time.
I am the centre of my intricate love story laid bare between the pages of an unmade book. Now and then I think of who I am in somebody else’s love stories; the old friend, somebody they used to know, the villain.
Now and then I wonder if I’ll ever possess the grace needed to form the language that tells the story about the one that got away …
Love stories are tales full of the unexpected. A tale full of butterflies and rainbows, rejection and misadventure. A tale best read in silence beneath starlight, just once, in a different place — upon a different time.