I remember the title of the very first chapter-book I ever rented out of my school’s library.  The very first “grown-up” novel I ever brought home without it being my own.  Because in fact, I knew that eventually I would have to give it back.  I guess that it was one of the reasons behind part of my fascination.  I loved the idea of holding something which was mine today and that would be someone else’s tomorrow. I read it attentively, every turn-page moment ever so gentle.  My books at home were ripped apart, torn into pieces.  They’d served as plates, glass coasters and bookmarks for other books.  Not this one.  It’s fascinating how we are careful with objects when they are not our own, opposed to those we own.  As if owning something gives you the right to take it for granted.
The red stamp, carefully reminding me that time was running out.  In bright letters, December the 21st, the date where I had to give it back.  That would be the day it went from being carefully sheltered from the cold in my two-shelved bookcase, to back with the thousand others in that dusty library.  The thing is, as special as this used book looked in the privacy of my bedroom, it looked just the opposite next to all these top-of-the list 2009 bestsellers.
It was mine, it belonged to me.  I wanted to keep it, cherish it.  But by taking it out that day, singing my name at the bottom of the register: I knew plenty what I was getting into.
I knew I’d have to give you back eventually.  I knew you weren’t mine, the scars on your back proved it.  You smelled like all of those who had come before me.
But I still cried over you, carried you around with me.  Took you out for coffee, brought you into my bed, and discussed you over with my friends.  I told them what I liked about you, what I didn’t.
And when time was over, I gave you back.
Because you were never mine.
And I knew it, I signed my name at the bottom of that register, already full of names.
Knowing plenty well that done with you or not, you wouldn’t be mine after December 21st.