Rereading a book is like entering your favorite space after years of being away,

Greeted by familiar sights, smells, colors, and textures.

Sometimes it's the warm scent of sweet vanilla or the bitter tang of a dark roast that greet you.

Or it’s the feeling of snuggling into your favorite mahogany alcove

And having the soft rays of sunlight caress your face;  

It’s warmth reaching through the window,

and soothing your frayed nerves, 

alming the thundering storm in your head. 

It's a beautiful place, isn't it?

Can you feel the texture of the pages as you turn them?

The same way you did before.

The rhythmic way your eyes bounce from page to page 

Discovering things you missed the first time,

 Or remembering the little tidbits you forgot.

Taken back to a land of ink and imagination constructed for you long ago.

Can you hear the discourse between the characters? 

Their familiar melody tickling you ears.

You can see the woods they're in,

The way their eyes track the setting sun as they argue about where to settle for the night. 

You watch as they grow closer, pages slowly being digested as you marvel in the universe that is their reality.

Then, as all good things do,

The book ends

And with it

So does

This.