Stiff yet bent, my spine, my legs
As I attempt to decompress;
I feel the rain in my bones
though it no longer yells from the rooftop.
I am too hungry for food
to keep interest in the pages,
too hungry for knowledge to leave,
too hungry for warmth to step
outside.
I should be shelfbound,
massaging the spines
as my own hunches over,
letting the words tickle my tongue
in ways only stories do.
There is far too much to consume,
to digest,
than a human lifespan can adhere to.
Teething,
Pleasure in having something to chew on
capsized
by the pain of learning such a sad truth.
Combing
through the pages with a sense of loss for those
untouched,
a sense of grief for my own stories which remain
unwritten.
There is simply too much life
and not enough time to live it.