Legs falling asleep.

Tea lukewarm.

Fingers brushing against the soft pages.

The sun kisses my curled up body by the half-open window.

The birds sing a melody to match the story.

The cool breeze makes the pages float,

flap ever so slightly like the wings of a newborn bird about to take flight.

The crack of the spine.

The gentle sound of turning pages.

Becoming, quicker, rapid, swish!

Tears of joy.

Tears of grief.

A smile.

A scream.

If this isn’t love, then what is?