The Book's Love

I am a dreary book. Just a dull and frivolous collection of words. I have a forbidden attraction towards a girl. She's my persistent reader. I leave an absorbed feel on her face for the days that she has explored in the deep depths of my pages, my love for her increases seconds by seconds as she engraves her eyes into my lifeless pages. I know a day is going to arrive when I'll run off of all my potential, I'll finish off from the words that contained me, that made me to the mark. But I feel that I'll leave a mark in her heart, a mark that will always remind her of me, to read me again, to come back to me. Alas, I find myself mangled in the pile of myriads of books, she has. I still see new friends being added to my company, who are equally in love. I still love her, miss her beautiful eyes that read each of the lines that I contained, gleefully with varieing uncertain emotions. I wish she was back to me, reading me. But all I am now for her is a trinket, another book to vaunt about. I have a pity to myself, to my love and now to my solitude. It striked so hard that it left a hole inside of me. the arrow, the arrow of sudden ignorance has penetrated through me. I'm left again, just on the same shelf I had lived my life upon... And will keep living!