For her, your mind is a library – a collection of books; some could even quite comfortably be placed in an antiquities collection. Some are scattered thoughts, whilst others are carefully catalogued. She wanders through its corridors. She’s fascinated, mesmerised and stirred – you recognise it by the way she tiptoes around certain words. But she never walks away from them completely – she always returns. Her eyes trace the words as her lips utter them, and when you listen carefully, you can almost make out her whispers. She doesn’t want to leave – there’s far too much to read and she has only just begun. She gently runs her fingers over the spines of your books. And you can feel her pause every so often. She turns the pages – she’s tempted to fold the corners and scribble notes on the pages that resonate with her own thoughts. But she refrains, instead she writes them in a code only the two of you can decipher – inside you, they’re the footnotes, scrawled with her black Sharpie marker.
She’s drawn to the innermost reverberations of your soul – the unedited versions. The rare collections. They’re located at the very top of the bookshelf. Far out of reach – she wishes she was taller, then she’d only have to use a ladder to get to the top. She sighs as she looks at the task ahead, but she won’t give up, curiosity is holding her firmly between its hands and won’t let go. She unties her old converse shoes and rolls up the sleeves on that over-sized sweater. And starts to climb, shelf by shelf – silently, not wanting to disturb the rest of your collection. She’ll lose herself when she gets there, she promises herself that. You wait, wondering if she will succeed – because you don’t recommend the books you love the most, and neither would you let anyone borrow them.