I love books.


     I love books.

     Honestly, I love them.

     I love the feel, I love the smell, I love the way they change color as they get  older.

     I love the way they fan out, pages like rings on the tree they once were.

     I love running my fingers over spines in book stores, softly, like caressing a  lover's back under the covers when the lights go out.

     I love opening a suitcase and laying them on the bed, wondering which  one to open first?

     I love the same books when I get home and hold them to my nose, and  they whisper of sea breezes, suntan oil and memories.

     I love when a box arrives and I open it and find a note from my publisher,  and precious things bearing my name.

     I love dusty piles of books in corners, waiting to find a home. 

     I love books that are old friends, waiting to picked up and held again.

     I love books on the table, books on the floor, books by a window, books by  a door.

     I love lazy afternoons, silent in the sun, with a book like a fat cat purring  on my chest.

     I love books introduced by friends or lovers given as a gift, something that  they've thought about, something that you wished.

     I love books stumbled on in a store, like a puppy at a pound, waiting for a  home.

     I love the sound of rain on a window, a house creaking, a fire crackling,  and a page turning.

     I love old books, new books, undiscovered books, hidden books, naughty  books, good books, and bad books.

     I love them all.

     
     I love books.