Dear Book,

You make me laugh. It's been a long time since someone made me laugh so much that I forget to be careful. I love that I can find pieces of myself scattered between your words. That wall that I've fought so hard to build keeps crumbling down, brick by brick. Other times you make me want to throw you across the room because I can't stand waiting to see how it's going to turn out. Then I can pick up a few bricks and start stacking them again. But I never get very far. I was never going to open you up in the first place because I've read stories like yours before. For some reason I always think the next one is going to be different. The next one won't leave me feeling hollow and empty. But somehow I found myself peeking into the pages before I realized it. Now I'm too enchanted. Now I can't stop reading, even if I know it might hurt at the end. So I'll continue to crawl through your dusty pages and hope that those last final words won't be blurred and drenched by tears.