Turning pages

i find it so easy to turn a page 

there’s something hopeful in it 

something promising 

something that holds my hand 

and reassures me that the narrative continues 

that the story is seamless 

but it has come to this 

in my rashness 

in my eagerness 

or maybe just by devilish speed of time 

I have read to the back cover 

i gasp 

i slam the book shut and hold it 

one hand on either cover 

my entire life 

between my palms 

i feel faint 

i would rather read turmoil and misfortune

than have nothing left to read

i feel shaky

my eyes

jumping to the shelves around me

they are no longer directed along the lines

a steady trainride from word to word

i pull myself out of the nook I have been reading in

pins and needles make my legs feel transparent

and with a fuzzy gaze i scan the bookshelves around me

but the possibilities are overwhelming

and it takes all I have to settle on a single golden spine

i pull it from the masses

and bring it back to my nook

i open it in my lap and rest my shaking eyes on the first line

i have begun

and so i have read through fall and into winter

missing the old book

wanting to lay it back on my palms and reread it

but i must continue

because now that I have started the book

the one with the golden spine

I can't help but want to know how it ends