The acidic flavor
of ink
faded on paper
yellowed with
experience
that only comes from
watching the years
pass you by -
The alacrity
of the smell
burning into your
brain with every
overused idea
presented to you
in an outdated
medium -
The solidity
offered by the
weight in your hands
and snatched away
by the perceived
meaning
we award to the words
of someone whom
you have never met
and do not know -
The complacency
you feel as you
carelessly
flip open the pages,
unaware of the glue
crumbling slowly
to nothing
from too many readers
who simply did not
understand –
Despite -
or perhaps because of –
this desperation to speak,
I am not ready to listen.
And so I set the book back
and walk to another shelf
knowing that I
was not ready
to understand
what the book wanted to tell me.
I did not know
if I ever would be.