The car bounces along the highway, hundreds of miles away from the place I now call home. Between looking out the windows and conversing with its passengers, I manage to squeak in a page or two of my book. As I close it, I see the words “Kansas City Public Library,” stamped on its slender pages.
Oh, dear book, I have taken you from your home as well. Two birds of the same nest, but you belong, at least until your due date, to me—and birds can only be seen when they allow it.
How far though, my love, have I taken you? Buried in my heart. Hundreds of miles? Thousands now, surely. But you have recently seen the ink from my mouth again. All those sleepless nights, and the one we spent together only seemed to tally to it. But that night was a different circumstance, as I took in every inch of skin you bore to me.
You slept, I breathed—all at once satisfied and deprived. How many years had it been now? I counted each one, patiently. Years for this one night to remind us that this was real.
Now there’s a chance you’re going halfway around the world, and I’m only hoping you take me with you. I belong to you—at least until my due date.