The Only-- MY Edition

She's like that story you heard when you were little. That feeling of something familiar that was with you from the beginning. Like it was important. Like she's important. And as you grow up, you find yourself unable to remember HER, only parts of her; the story, her book cover, her text. But you find her, pieces of her, lines and pages and the familiar scrapes of your fingers and palms of every day... and smell of her... And you chase them. Chase the pieces. Hoping you'll find her again. But what then, can it mean? Is she out there waiting to be my story again? Or has she really gone out of print... is she just an idea for a book I'll never read... ever again?