The Book and Me

By Ashton Hope

A few months ago

a friend of mine introduced me

to a book one of its kind.

That particular book

was the single and only copy;

the printing had long since been stopped.

There was another novella by that author,

but it didn't intrigue me as much

as this one did. 

I don't know how I did it,

but I somehow got a hold of it. 

The description on the back itself made me laugh.

It had me short of breath,

my eyes in a permanent crinkle. 

I opened it

and I read.

a few pages in:

nothing interesting,

just a normal book with abnormal jokes.

It was a few chapters in that I got to know why it was the only copy.

It was horrifying -

the wrongdoings that were mentioned.

The plot made me want to 

cry my heart out

as the sense of disillusionment 

settled in

like a cold block of ice

on naked skin.

It awakened,

almost like a primal drive,

the urge to protect 

the book at all costs

as it was the only piece of literature

that was the truth. 

Not even halfway through

and I wanted the book injected

into my blood.

I wanted to breathe in the book;

get a feel of the hardships,

if only a taste.

I think

somewhere in between

I started to adore it.

I wanted to keep it in my pocket

at all times

and treat it like a piece of my own.

The book never left my sight

and any time it did,

something wrapped around me

like an invisible thread,

pulling at every breath -

making my hands clammy and cold,

desperate for the warmth of the leather.

The thought of losing the book

sent me down a spiral

where I clawed at my own skin

trying to stop the ‘what-ifs’ and ‘whys’.

I wish 

to be buried with it.

I wish

it remains mine for

all of eternity

unless the book itself decides

it has had enough of me

and chooses 

to leave.

Until it doesn’t,

may my name

forever be joined with its.

By Ashton Hope