Loving a book.

Some bibliophiles frown on books with water-marked dust jackets and dog-earred pages, calling it abuse. They believe that books should be virginal, white-leafed, untouched, chaste, unsullied. They arrange their novels and their tomes full of essays in orderly rows from tallest and thinnest to shortest and fattest. When you open these books, they creak and sigh. Decrepit old maids.

I would like to pop the spines of each of these books. I would be gratified by the violent crack. I would write love notes in their empty spaces. "What a charming idea you are. How clever. I adore you." I would caress these lines with a brilliant highlighter, tickling every word with my implied promise to return to her over and over again. They would wear the marks of my love like ear-nibbles and lipstick stains. That's what love should be. It doesn't belong on a shelf. It's pages should never be white.