The book is in her hands,
But she is not reading.
She is living.
She is thriving.
Able to be for the first time herself.
Living vicariously through characters with mundane names,
And extraordinary lives.
She lives her life in between torn covers;
In paragraphs and punctuation.
Experiencing love and death.
Right and wrong.
Classic stories and those of the future.
Anything is possible,
Nothing is something.
The book is in her hand,
The story is in her heart.
She absorbs it.
And as the pages turn on.
And her hand grows tired of holding it in the same position.
And climax is reached and seen in the rear-view mirror.
And the last word is ringing in her ears.
A tear escapes her eyes.
She is not thriving anymore.
No more extraordinary,
Hello just plain ordinary.