To Dyl
Books listen,
but can't talk.
Their pages and spine are sensitive,
but if they had a soul,
it would be a rock.
It can't hug
or caress your hands.
The can suck up
the pain,
but it's not the same.
It can't cry
with you.
It can't say,
'I love you! '
It can't lie
to sooth you.
And it can't die
with you.
When you
have the real thing.
All blood and flesh,
better than the rest,
you throw it out?
Actions speak louder
than words, kid.
Does this sound better?
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