Dear Reader,

I have been many books.

I am a book. Not a poem on a single sheet, not a sheaf of notes, not a paperclipped pile of papers. I am a book.

I am a book with writing, still being written. I have been glanced at, passed over, picked up. I have been many books for many people.

I was the book you didn’t pick up. My cover was too tattered, the font old-fashioned. My hardbound pages were too thick for sand and salt. You picked a paperback instead.

I was the book you picked up but never opened. You saw me on a strange bookshelf, touched me on a whim. You thought my jacket interesting, but other things came along and you forgot I once was interesting too.

I was the book you opened but never read. I was gifted to you, and you obliged the giver by hastily flipping through a few pages. My words were unfamiliar, my sentences complex. Politeness only goes so far.

I was the book you read partway. You stuck bits of paper, receipts, coffee-stained napkins in my pages to mark your place when you’d return. You didn’t. You picked apart my paragraphs and left me smudged with pencil.

I was the book you lit on fire. You ripped out my pages for kindling, burned me as fuel to keep you warm. You survived at the cost of my chapters.

I was the book you had no time for. I was another thing to cross off your list, but you scanned me, skipped around, and understood little. You dropped me as soon as you learned the ending.

I was the book you say you read but never actually did. You skimmed my sleeve, took my summary as story. I gathered dust on the floor next to your bed.

I was the book you thought had the answers. You carried me everywhere, park benches, trains, laundromats that smelled of dampness. You dogeared my pages, then abandoned me as soon as you realized I could give you nothing you wanted, nothing you needed.

Then you. You stroked my spine with curiosity, traced the letters of my title with callused fingers. You picked me up, opened me, read me slowly and carefully. You brushed away the bits of paper, rubbed out the smudges. You lingered over my lines and marked them only with your fingertips. My stories and stanzas were enough to keep you warm.

You carried me with your hands, fell asleep with me on your chest. To you, my rough-cut pages were perfect for turning, my worn cover comforting. You read me chapter by chapter, found shades of meaning in my white spaces. You savored the writing in my beginning and middle, appreciated the blank pages of my end.

I am the book you read and still continue to read. I invite you to write yourself into me.