She loved the smell of books and stories,
Of worlds she had once lived in,
It seems the ink has left the pages,
And found a home on her skin.
She didn't belong here,
She lived inside her head,
It was like she slipped out of the covers,
Of an old book instead.
You'd see it in her eyes,
Deeper then a well,
She was a library full of stories,
With so much to tell.
Her heart had been far further,
Then her eyes had even seen,
She walked on words to places,
Her two feet hadn't been.
But her skin is ink stained,
You wish she didn't succeed,
For even though she's gone we'll still look around,
In every book we read.
