You found me, alone
on the shelf, begging
to be picked up.

You leafed through my
pages, separating them
one by one.
My spine adapted to the shape
of your hands,
expanding
to whichever page you chose.

You knew every word,
a mantra you’d repeated
for years. You spoke
articulately, pausing
at all the right places. 

I was damaged, 
table of contents ripped out.

It didn’t matter.