She called herself plain.

Her life bound in a single book,

Tagged uninteresting; boring.

Tucked away in the corner of a vast library.

She believed she was dull.

Yet her fingers brushed the spine of books,

Hushed; silent.

Immersed in a universe of writings and powerful poetry.

Fog embraced her round glasses

And warmth filled her as she sipped on milky coffee,

Watching raindrops in their fierce battles.

In a quiet cafe, humming a soft melody.

She flipped thin pages,

Unrushed; slowly,

Her eyes tinted red at the lines she read.

The death of her favorite character,

So unfair; lonely.                                                                                   

Left her mourning a world that only books had bred.

And yet, she thought her own tale,

Was unread and forgotten.

In fact, her book was thick,

Its spine worn, from hands that grazed far too long.

For countless eyes stayed and lingered

On those words edged in wounds, forever unable to move on.