It's uncomfortably intimate at first, the you. 

Then before you know it, it seduces you, wraps itself around you and holds you tight.  So tight, you couldn't let go if you wanted to.   

You. It makes you wear the experience like a second skin until you are there--experiencing that afternoon tea or that long walk or that conversation with the birds at your feeder. 

You. You shouldn't be afraid of how the word draws out your readerlyness, even when the writer you read invents words--especially so. It reminds you that you too create this world, this picture of patio gardens and long naps, evenings cooking in the kitchen and staying up late reading novels.  You are no longer allowed to be just a voyeur--you must live the experience as you devour each word on the page like it is a fat grape bursting with juice, filling your mouth with its tart sweetness.  Yes, you taste this too, even as you read it.

To read is to invent, to imagine what the writer's words look like when they lift from the page and become your reality.  You do this.  You.  The one reading this right now.  You.  I reach across my page and thank you for reading, for bringing my words to life, for being willing to wear your you so that I can bridge the gap between writer, word, reader.