You can’t fathom how much I miss you already. It seemed like time had halted to a stop as I lingered on your crisp, beige pages trying to read slower, taking in your intoxicating smell, every letter and every word. I have desperately tried to read between your lines and find meaning in every letter embossed in your fresh pages. I have appreciated the poem in your prose and the sentiment in your facts. I have seen the war waged, heard the clanking of metal armor, felt the blood and life gushing out of me, all in words. I have seen my dream man, heard him whisper in my ears, felt the hair rising on my flesh, while reading your pages.
People will understand the pain I feel right now, only when they themselves turn over the last page of the book, to find themselves staring at the inside of the paperback jacket. At this particular moment, I feel powerless and purposeless. Powerless because however hard I try, I won’t be able to change the fate of your characters, written in finality by your author and purposeless because I can’t see what I should do in the immediate future. I turn off the lights and try to sleep in vain. I toss and turn on my bed while my mind runs the entire plot, on a loop like a movie.
Believe me, no one can make it better. {unless you have a sequel ;)} The characters have become a family and it seems like I have lost one. I know I will never be able to see them again and never form new memories of them. All that will remain with me are those old memories. Moments that I will cherish and replay again and again in my head like that old song, tearing up each time remembering you.
Yours,
The book lover.
Quillosophy 