The spine is smoothed over,
Softened by my fingers' oils
Applied over and again.
As the ink stains my fingers,
The words seep into my blood
Until I breathe the plot and
The Story's patterns lock prepared
Pathways through my synapses,
Ruts erode into my retinas.
Although I will never touch her,
Never her hear sing,
Nor even talk with her,
My heart has passed through
The porous pages and has become
Structure for her fiction.
It is a broken sort of magic,
Paying real emotion for imaginary worlds.
And with every reading,
I have lost a little of my soul to sustain her
When she dies.
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