The lilac picnic blanket seemed to swallow her whole, as fingers gently pried the book open

Large eyes drink in each of the words inside

The sun smiled down at her, spilling a glowy haze around her

She is more in awe of the worlds she’s exploring than the average passerby looking at her curiously

 

A book of fearsome princesses, new worlds, and enchanted, endless forests;

This is the homeland she wishes she was born in, as words become images consuming her conscience

She smiles, she laughs, she cries, as her books take her down her favourite windy path of the woods

As she internalizes the feeling, she grins to herself, because she is reading

 

Rain patters down the shop window, orange and red leaves only just visible beyond it

A hot mug of a foaming latte sits next to her invitingly, as she reads of terrible murders and thrilling tales, entranced in a mystery of the century

She looks out the window once again, to see a stray tabby cat walking down an alley

She could’ve sworn she saw markings of square spectacles around its eyes.

 

She is curled up in her favourite habitat, her blanket and nightlight becoming her only necessities

Warmness encompasses her, as she reads and reads and reads

She is a knowledge-seeker, falling in love with literary talents and quotations.

She is an empathetic fool, feeling for her characters perhaps more than she does herself.

 

At the heart of it all, I am simply a reader.