You are the book that lives on my bedside table. My favorite one, the spine worn thin by all the times my fingers have traced those pages. That one, there, under the glasses. No, the other side of the phone. Yeah, that one.
          Sometimes you get a little buried, but there's only so much room on that table. So maybe my watch gets laid across you, then the notes for that paper I need to write. Maybe some textbooks and that waltz CD I love. But when the teetering pile of all life's little cares slips, bruising my heart, I hear the crash of the textbooks tumbling to the floor and I toss my watch aside, wanting only to curl up with you, to be comforted by the familiar smell of the old pages, to escape.

And you're always there.

That's why you're my favorite.