why an old book doesn't fall apart

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she read me fifty four times.


fifty four.


that's not counting the times she was curled up on her mothers lap listening to me.


nor the many times she begged her brother to read me.


thats not counting the numerous times she opened me and read my pictures with her eyes because she still hadn't learned to read.


i dont even sit on the bookshelf anymore.


i sometimes miss hanging out with the other books that are over stuffed on the book shelf.


we used to tell each other stories late into the night.


now i spend my nights tucked under her little pillow and praying she doesn't drool on me again.


the only thing that keeps my pages glued together and my ink from rubbing off is remembering


she's read me fifty four times.


fifty four.


 

Created: Mar 17, 2014

Tags: story

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