I am an over-read book.

My pages are yellowed.

My binding is taped again and again,

and even the the fixed spine is crumbling into dust.

I smell older than aged paper: musty, damp, and moldy.

So many times I’ve been read by others, 

only to be shoved back on the shelf. 

I’ve grown dusty waiting for an avid reader to take me up,

and find meaning in my story. 

Finally, a reader pulled me from the shelves. 

He looked at the title and opened my cover.

He holds my binding in an open palm, preventing further injury.

Starting from the top, he gently turned my fragile leaves.

His eyes wen back and forth, reading the pages written ages ago. 

He took me to the till, and paid my value to the clerk.

I was taken out of the bag he carried, and set upon his desk. 

He cautiously removed my shattered spine, and dusted off each page. 

He sprinkled powder over my pages, and sealed me in a paper bag. 

For days and days I waited, afraid I was forgotten or unworthy to save.

Finally my buyer took me out of the bag, he brushed off all the powder. 

My pages were much whiter, with barely any stains. 

He got a needle and a thread, and painstakingly stitched my pages into a binding. 

He held me again in his open palm and read my whole tale. 

When he was finished, I feared I’d be back on a shelf or back in a box. 

But, he closed my cover and held onto me. 

He carried me ‘ere he went: always held tight and valued more than ever before.