As I turned the page I saw it was in black and white, like it was stuck in the past and couldn't be read anymore. I touched the letters in cursive and read the words until the ink wrote them on my burning heart. Now, with each beat, through my veins flow the words of hellos and goodbyes between hall and walls. I folded the corner of the page when I found the mountains and the hidden wine bottles so I could go back to the nights between flames and stars.
I looked for the little moments between the long verses and I found the reason why my shelf is filled with novels. I discovered presents trapped between forced sentences. I overcame the fear of reading each chapter with the nostalgia of passing years on my shoulders. I read the numerous chapters during a sleepless night and I left the bookmark hidden between the blank pages, to not let some pages prevail more than others.
It wasn't easy, leaving the book on my nightstand and realize that the only pen that was by its side now was more. I realized the rest of the way told in the pages is destined to be written solemnly by my hand, and when the picture with the cap and gown the book is going to be heavier.
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