I was gifted a new book yesterday. I have yet to break the spine. I have not sounded out a word. Nor reread the first paragraph to make sure it serifs into my heart. I have not immersed in the scent of ink, nor clutched it to my chest. (I will do all these things and more.) But I already know I love it. 

I love it because the gifter knows me. Knows that I love to read. Knows that I live in the word. Knows how to get into my heart and fill it. This is the foreward to my read — the thing written, not by the author, but by the expert who knows what will add meaning to the content of the book. 

I see it waiting on my beside table. I smile in love’s foreward.