You were a story. I was desperate to read you. I needed your words to be spoken inside my skull. I flipped through your pages, my thumb brushing your deckle edges, knowing I’d never have the time to finish. I let my index finger stroke a lone embossed line of letters, symbolic of such a small fragment of your beauty. How I wanted to savor your prose but I gasped in your vowels every time I came up for air. I marveled at your insights, treated the foreshadows like mere clouds passing by, and dog-eared pages with passages to which I yearned to return. To reread. To somehow share with the world. This. This! Beyond the page. Unfettered by language. You.
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