i am reading this book and i feel you reading this book with me. i am with you at a time that has already passed, yet there is no lag at all. you have read this book once, before me. your eyes have shuffled through the words; the fragments that are strangers to me are passing acquaintances to you. you have walked with them. you have a warm memory of them.
it is not the most important book to you, but it could be an important book to us. i picked it up and chose it; you lent it to me.
i can feel you and i can see you feeling the words on the pages, as i feel them through me, through you. some pages touched you more than others, some you skimmed over in moments of distraction. i can feel the contraction in your lower abdomen at the sight of certain sentences. i know it as though it is mine, but it is not. this wistful longing, the not knowing it would ever happen to you but the careful hoping—it is all yours.
i can feel you feeling the words and i cannot help but feel like a voyeur meddling in your sacred grounds.
you are a tender soul, generous and aggregated. i am often guilt-ridden at the thought of tearing a hole in your heart.