John

I

You know when you find a really good book, and you open the page and get that ache down your jaw and chills through your bones after reading a line, because it's so good? It consumes every part of you from the first Capital to the last punctuation mark to ink the page. And you cuddle up, all nice and warm with your feet- up and your heart beating fast and just...read. It completes you. And as you approach the end and your fingers are burning with the blisters from the page- turning, and you feel the tense, anxious anticipation pulsing through every nerve in you. And just as you finish, you have the empty feeling inside. It has climaxed, but a part of you is gone; missing. You have read and read until your fingers bleed and your eyes water and still you have no completion, because no matter how many times you read it, you cannot go back and unread it. It is over. And you get that sinking feeling that comes with the sudden regret of finishing it too quickly. Sometimes you read and re-read and then read again the last sentence, and stare at it in disbelief and defiance. It can't be over, it just can't. But it is. And you long for more, but there is none. It doesn't matter if it is a happy ending or not, there will generally be a tear shed. Occasionally more, but generally just the one, which tiptoes down from your eyelash as you blink, kissing the bridge of your nose, before sliding gracefully down to caress the tip, as it rolls to your parted lips, where you taste the salted emotions that have been bottled-  up so much, until they pore- out into a single droplet which is your last memory of that book and its horrific ending.