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.