If you want me, buy me in paperback.

Drip coffee along my pages and take notes in my margins.

Carry me in back pockets and purses,

On train rides and long drives.

Rip out a page to give to a friend.

Maybe I’ll be helpful then.

Underline my best parts,

Glaze over the bad,

And do me the favor of ignoring my mistakes.

I’ve heard that I’m made of a few.

Keep in mind that I’m fragile in binding.

My leaves might fall out,

But there’s comforting beauty in that,

And fragility can breed love, or so I’ve read.

Thumb me through on sunny afternoons and rainy mornings,

With a smile up to your cheeks,

And reread me later to see if the ending has changed.