" He kissed her, love it was to the fullest of his passion". She delicately rubbed the last pages of her favorite book with her puny fingers. Holding the book close to her bosom with a smile, she bestowed her emotions behind them. Lying in her cozy bed, she expiated the sagacity of the text, as passionately as the character of the book kissed his woman.
She was lusty of books but never of the life detailed. She held her cup, dry insipid coffee pertaining to it and traveled through stories captive behind her debilitated eyes. Stories she'd been a part of, characters she'd played and imaginations she'd suffered at the hands of those mesmerizing books. The very rusty aroma of the text indulged with the fragrance of the dead insipid coffee could let her apprehend the world, destitute. Compositions helped her conceal the dreaded realities.
Was it fiction ? It was, but not for the one who created them. Alas! not for the book girl.
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