Such a simple concept, really....write a book about love from the perspective of the alphabet. Each letter standing in for some piece of the puzzle of one's relationship, all 26 coming together like a string charting its beginning, middle and end. It sounds simple until you read Levithan's take on the idea. Then you realize it's so brilliant it's probably a wise thing no one attempted it before him because no way could it be as good.

There's not much to say here other than the reason I loved this book as much as I did was for how much I felt I knew these "characters" (supposedly Levithan himself and a long-time girlfriend) through this clever act of non-linear storytelling...I'll let you all be your own judge on this fast read and instead end with some of my favorite entries:

blemish, n.
The slight acne scars. The penny-sized, penny-shaped birthmark right above your knee. The dot below your shoulder that must have been from when you had chicken pox in the third grade. The scratch on your neck—did I do that? This brief transcript of moments, written on the body, is so deeply satisfying to read.

commonplace, adj.
It swings both ways, really. I'll see your hat on the table and I'll feel such longing for you, even if you're only in the other room. If I know you aren't looking, I'll hold the green wool up to my face, inhale that echo of your shampoo and the cold air from outside. But then I'll walk into the bathroom and find you've forgotten to put the cap back on the toothpaste again, and it will be this splinter that I just keep stepping on.

indelible, adj.
That first night, you took your finger and pointed to the top of my head, then traced a line between my eyes, down my nose, over my lips, my chin, my neck, to the center of my chest. It was so surprising, I knew I would never mimic it. That one gesture would be yours forever.

posterity, n.
I try not to think about us growing old together, mostly because I try not to think about growing old at all. Both things—the years passing, the years together—are too enormous to contemplate. But one morning, I gave in. You were asleep, and I imagined you older and older. Your hair graying, your skin folded and creased, your breath catching. And I found myself thinking: If this continues, if this goes on, then when I die, your memories of me will be my greatest accomplishment. Your memories will be my most lasting impression.