Written Between the Lines

Our story was told through books. Not through the black arial font but the white spaces between. The faint finger prints on the cover. The cracks in the spine.

She wrote inscriptions on the title pages of her books and used red ribbon as a bookmark.

Before her, I’d stuffed the stories from my childhood in a corner of my room, letting dust coat the corners and shadows hide the titles.

When she arrived, like the careful turning of a page, I let her take each one out from its exile, examining it with a reader’s appreciation. All it took was weeks before I’d replaced the cobweb covered corner with a tall towering bookshelf, decorated with picture frames and candles, and slowly filling up with more and more stories.

I made her a bookmark covered with evidence of our own adventures and she wrote me inscriptions that meant even more than the books did.

Our story was told through books. Not with plot and characters, but in the way I used to hide my passions away, and now, thanks to her, I cradle them in gentle hands.

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